THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


GIFT  OF 

"Ma"  Crandtll 


A    Knight 
of  the   Wilderness 


As  he  smiled  he  raised  his  eyes  and  met  Sylvia's 
glance.     (See  page  21.) 


A  Knight 
of  the  Wilderness 


By 

OLIVER  MARBLE  GALE 

and 

HARRIET   WHEELER 


ILLUSTRATED  BY  IVIN  NEY 


CHICAGO 

THE  REILLY  &  BRITTON  CO. 

1909 


Copyright,  1909 

by 
THE  REILLY  &  BRITTON  CO. 


All  Rights  Reserved 


Published  October,  1909 


List   of    Chapters 


CHAPTER  NO.  PAGE 

I  THE  MAN  IN  THE  FLATBOAT 9 

II  THE  BRAVE  WHO  SHOULD  HAVE  DIED 25 

III  LOVELIGHT  35 

IV  THE  MAN  WITH  HAIR  OF  BRONZE 48 

V  THE  FRONTIER  CLERK 66 

VI  THE   MILLHAND 79 

VII  SHADOWS    96 

VIII  LOVE  AND  FEAR 112 

IX  CANT-HOOKS  AND  CAPTAINS 125 

X  THE  FLAG  OF  TRUCE 138 

XI  MASSACRE 152 

XII  A  MESSAGE  FOR  THE  HAWK 167 

XIII  SANCTUARY 181 

XIV  IN  THE  THICKET 189 

XV  THE  CAPTURE 206 

XVI  THE  WHITE  MAN'S  CHILD 215 

XVII  THE  SHADOWS  DEEPEN 226 

XVIII  THE   RISK 236 

XIX  THE  WHITE  MAN'S  FRIEND 242 

XX  THE  CAVE  IN  THE  EOCK 252 

XXI  THE  BEGINNING  OF  THE  TRAIL 265 

XXII  THE  END  OF  THE  TRAIL 277 

XXIII  RESIGNATION   290 

XXIV  THE  MAN  FROM  THE  DEAD 299 

XXV  DARKNESS 312 

XXVI  LIGHT .  324 


Illustrations 

AS    HE    SMILED    HE    EAISED    HIS    EYES    AND    MET 

SYLVIA'S  GLANCE.     (See  page  21) Frontispiece 

LINCOLN  SHOOK  HIM  TILL  THE  BREATH  RATTLED 
OUT  OF  HIM PAGE  76 

"IT  REMINDS  ME  OF  TWO  MEN  DOWN  IN  KEN 
TUCKY  WHO  CAUGHT  A  'POSSUM  IN  A  BOX 
TRAP."  PAGE  172 

"FlRE  FLY  WILL  NOT  DIE.      HE  WILL  BE  A  GREAT 

CHIEF  AND  A  MIGHTY  HUNTER." PAGE    220 

"SYLVIA!"    His    HAND    REACHED    FORTH    AND 

TOUCHED    HERS,    GENTLY PAGE   336 


A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 


CHAPTER  I 
THE  MAN  IN  THE  FLATBOAT 

ALL  New  Salem,  tingling  with  excitement,  was 
down  by  Cameron's  dam.  It  was  not  often  that 
excitement  came  to  that  little  cluster  of  log  cabins 
perched  on  the  banks  of  the  Sangamon  River  in  the 
year  of  our  Lord  1831.  They  had  their  births  and 
their  burials,  the  people  of  New  Salem,  and  their 
wooings  and  their  weddings ;  but  a  village  of  a  dozen 
or  more  log  houses  cannot  well  keep  itself  fully 
awake  with  stimulation  so  meager. 

Now  and  then  the  outer  world  permitted  them  a 
wanderer  with  gossip  from  Vandalia;  or  from 
Louisville,  if  their  fortune  ran  strong.  Occasionally 
an  itinerant  preacher  passed  that  way  and  aroused 
them  to  a  state  of  pleasurable  panic.  At  intervals 
the  boys  from  Clary's  Grove  paid  them  a  rough,  rol 
licking  call  in  facetious  mood,  making  the  present 
exhilarating  and  leaving  the  future  uncertain;  but 
the  agreeable  sensations  which  might  have  been  de 
rived  from  that  form  of  diversion  were  marred  by 
danger  to  life,  limb,  and  law  which  usually  attended 
these  visits. 

9 


10  A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

But  all  these  things,  in  their  uttermost  possi 
bilities,  were  as  nothing  compared  to  that  which 
stirred  the  inhabitants  to  the  highest  pitch  of  agita 
tion  and  brought  them  hurrying  down  to  Cameron's 
dam  on  this  morning  in  April.  They  were  all  there, 
from  the  elegant  and  important  James  Kutledge, 
descendant  of  the  Eutledges  of  South  Carolina, 
founder  of  the  settlement  and  keeper  of  the  tavern, 
down  to  the  least  toddler  of  the  tow-headed,  bare 
legged  Kelso  brood,  arrived  the  preceding  autumn 
from  Indiana. 

There  was  old  John  Cameron,  who  with  Kutledge 
owned  the  mill  and  the  milldam.  There  were  the 
men  of  New  Salem — the  merchants,  the  smith,  the 
carpenter,  the  cooper — ejaculating  and  gesticulating 
on  the  bank  of  the  stream.  There  was  Dame  Rut- 
ledge,  with  uncovered  head,  hot  from  her  kitchen, 
her  bare  arms  wrapped  in  her  apron  against  the 
coolness  of  the  spring  air.  There  were  all  the 
matrons  of  the  settlement  gathered  about  her  in 
voluble  concourse. 

There  was  Ann  Butledge — demure,  beautiful, 
tender — standing  by  the  side  of  her  accepted  lover, 
John  McNeill,  the  young  and  prosperous  merchant. 
There  was  Rachel  Hall,  the  girl  from  Indian  Creek, 
black-haired,  black-eyed,  levying  tribute  upon  her 
blundering  yokels  in  the  midst  of  the  envious  daugh 
ters  of  the  town.  There  was  her  sister,  Sylvia,  fair- 
skinned,  with  hair  of  twisted  gold  and  eyes  gath 
ered  from  the  skies  of  June;  sedate,  contained, 


The  Man  in  the  Flatboat  11 

smiling  indulgently  upon  the  capricious  one  at  her 
side. 

The  children  of  the  settlement  were  there,  awed 
in  the  presence  of  the  unusual,  clinging  to  the  skirts 
of  their  mothers,  staring  dumbly  out  upon  the  river. 
Even  Mentor  Graham,  the  schoolmaster,  was  among 
them,  book  under  arm,  horn-bowed  spectacles  down 
his  nose,  gazing  with  academic  absorption  upon  the 
scene  that  had  turned  the  whole  town  out  of  doors. 

A  flat-boat,  floating  down  the  river  in  charge  of 
two  men,  had  run  aground  on  the  middle  part  of  the 
dam,  where  the  current  flowed  most  swiftly.  Her 
nose  hung  in  midair  in  front  of  the  dam.  Her  stern 
was  buried  deep  beneath  a  tumbling  rush  of  yellow, 
muddy  water.  Every  moment  the  waves  piled 
higher.  Every  moment  they  bore  her  down,  clamp 
ing  her  more  firmly  against  the  obstruction  that 
held  her.  She  could  not  move.  So  much  water  had 
already  poured  into  her  that  she  would  not  have 
floated  if  she  could  have  been  freed.  For  all  that 
the  people  of  New  Salem  could  foresee,  she  was  a 
doomed  wreck. 

One  of  the  two  occupants  sat  on  a  barrel,  which 
the  curling  waters  folded  and  lapped,  and  gazed  with 
stupid  fascination  at  the  slanting  lines  that  the 
waves  were  tracing  higher  and  higher  along  the  gun 
wales.  The  other  was  exhibiting  to  the  spectators 
at  the  moment  nothing  more  definite  than  a  pair  of 
amazingly  long  and  angular  elbows  and  a  couple  of 
interminable  legs.  He  wan  stooping  over  in  the 


12  A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

after  part  of  the  boat,  where  the  water  was  deepest, 
for  a  purpose  not  then  apparent. 

Near  the  water,  at  the  end  of  the  dam,  a  small, 
nervous,  excitable  man  divided  his  time  between 
pacing  the  ground  with  frantic  gesticulation  and 
profane  admonition,  addressed  to  the  one  stooping 
in  the  after  part  of  the  boat — which  that  one  did  not 
heed  in  the  least — and  sitting  on  a  stump  by  the 
river's  edge  in  a  state  of  the  most  profound  and 
absorbed  melancholy.  It  was  obvious  that  he  was 
the  owner  of  the  boat  and  the  cargo. 

The  men  of  New  Salem  shouted  advice.  The 
women  clucked  sympathy.  The  young  men  hooted. 
The  young  women  tittered.  The  children  continued 
to  stare  dumbly,  stupefied  by  the  spectacle  of  ship 
wreck  come  to  their  very  door.  Mentor  Graham, 
adjusting  his  horn-bowed  spectacles,  stepped  nearer 
the  scene  to  illuminate  it  with  the  light  of  science. 
James  Eutledge,  being  a  man  of  tactful  address, 
endeavored  to  engage  the  owner  in  sympathetic 
conversation,  but  to  no  purpose. 

The  man  stooping  in  the  stern  of  the  boat, 
oblivious  to  the  confusion  of  tongues,  arose  slowly, 
unfolding  himself  to  a  prodigious  height.  In  his 
hand  he  held  a  huge  sack.  Struggling  slightly  under 
the  weight  of  it,  he  carried  it  forward,  dripping, 
and  placed  it  in  the  bow.  Having  done  so,  he 
straightened  himself  to  a  still  greater  height,  and 
looked  calmly  with  quizzical  interest  at  the  crowd 
gathered  on  the  bank.  His  eyes  passed  leisurely 


The  Man  in  the  Flatboat  13 

from  one  to  another.  As  his  glance  turned,  a  hush 
followed. 

The  hush  was  broken  by  a  titter  among  the  girls. 
The  titter  grew  into  a  nervous  laugh,  which  ran 
among  the  spectators  and  died  abruptly.  There  was 
something  about  the  boatman  that  stirred  them  to 
mirth.  There  was  something  about  him  which  made 
them  doubt  whether  they  should  laugh.  He  was 
ludicrously  tall.  He  was  grotesquely  thin.  He  was 
a  succession  of  inelegant  angles.  High  on  his  almost 
interminable  legs  dangled  a  pair  of  frayed  and 
faded  jeans.  His  raw  wrists  straggled  below  his 
sleeves.  His  head  inclined  slightly,  in  a  posture 
half  droll,  half  pathetic. 

His  face  was  as  gaunt  and  bony  as  his  frame. 
High  cheek-bones  he  had,  and  prominent  jaws; 
between  them  a  great  length  of  sallow  cheek.  His 
nose  was  large,  and  somewhat  awry.  His  mouth 
was  big  and  repressed.  His  features  completed  the 
paradox  of  his  figure.  Those  who  looked  could  not 
tell  whether  to  laugh  at  him,  or  weep  for  him. 

They  could  not  tell  until  they  saw  the  eyes — 
and  then  they  could  not  tell !  These  were  more  baf 
fling  still.  Pale  blue  they  were,  with  lids  that 
drooped  across  them;  unutterably  sad,  wistful,  and 
appealing.  But  in  the  moment  that  they  were  wist 
ful,  without  so  much  as  the  slightest  change  coming 
into  them,  they  were  commanding,  compelling;  and 
while  they  were  compelling,  in  their  depths  there 
twinkled  a  sly  mirth. 


14  A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

It  was  this  spectacle  of  a  man  that  the  people  of 
New  Salem  gazed  upon  this  April  morning. 

"Howdy,"  said  the  long  boatman,  presently,  in 
an  even  voice.  Another  titter,  beginning  with 
Rachel  Hall,  grew  into  a  laugh,  which  died  away  as 
the  first  had  done. 

"You  make  me  think  of  a  little  boy  I  used  to 
know  down  in  Indiana,"  continued  the  man,  sol 
emnly.  The  mirth  in  the  depths  of  his  eyes  flashed 
and  played  fitfully  as  he  began  to  speak.  "His 
father  had  a  cow  he  called  Betsy.  Betsy  was  a 
great  cow  to  kick,  and  the  little  boy  used  to  like  to 
watch  his  father  milk  her.  One  day  the  cow  kicked 
the  old  man  in  the  head  and  killed  him.  Pretty  soon 
the  boy's  mother  married  again.  Somebody  asked 
the  boy  how  he  liked  his  new  father.  'Oh,  well,  I 
don't  think  much  of  him,'  said  the  boy,  'but  I  'm 
glad  he  's  come,  'cause  now  there  's  somebody  I  can 
watch  Betsy  kick  again.'  Maybe  you  don't  think 
much  of  us,  but  you  seem  powerful  glad  to  see  us 
this  morning,  just  the  same." 

Without  further  word  he  turned  and  strode  back 
where  the  water  piled  over  the  stern  of  the  boat. 
On  shore  there  was  a  moment  of  silence.  The  peo 
ple  of  New  Salem  were  not  immediately  alive  to  the 
significance  and  application  of  the  story.  Presently 
a  soft  and  silvery  laugh  tinkled  above  the  sound  of 
the  cascade  rushing  over  the  mill  dam. 

The  man  in  the  boat,  taken  by  the  music  of  the 
laugh,  cocked  his  head  where  he  stood  stooping  in 


The  Man  in  the  Flatboat  15 

the  water.  His  eyes  searched  among  the  specta 
tors.  They  fell  upon  the  demure,  tender,  beautiful 
young  woman  standing  beside  the  young  man  of 
assertive  and  prosperous  bearing;  Ann  Butledge 
and  her  accepted  lover.  As  he  looked,  she  laughed 
again.  Her  blue  eyes,  full  of  merriment,  returned 
his  glance.  Without  the  stirring  of  a  muscle,  with 
only  a  changing  light  in  the  depths  of  his  own,  the 
man  in  the  boat  answered  her  laugh  and  her  look 
with  complete  understanding.  There  are  meetings 
that  are  electrical.  There  are  companionships  that 
begin  with  ages  of  comprehension  already  behind 
them. 

In  the  moment  of  their  communion  the  gaze  of 
the  boatman  fell,  and  he  returned  to  his  labors, 
whelmed  with  self-consciousness.  In  the  same 
moment  the  story  reached  home,  and  a  gust  of 
laughter  arose  from  the  spectators;  even  Mentor 
Graham  wisely  smiled. 

The  shouts  of  advice,  the  banter  of  the  young 
men,  presuming  upon  the  boatman's  facetiousness, 
redoubled.  The  long  boatman,  stooping  in  the  stern 
of  the  craft  with  his  wrists  buried  beneath  the 
swirling  water,  paid  no  heed.  Neither  did  the  other 
boatman,  still  sitting  on  his  barrel  island.  Neither 
did  the  melancholy  man  against  the  stump. 

Again  the  tall  and  angular  boatman  unfolded. 
Again  he  had  in  his  great  hands  a  sack,  heavy  and 
cumbrous,  which  he  carried  to  the  bow  of  the  boat. 
Depositing  it  there,  he  grinned  amiably  at  the  peo- 


16  A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

pie  on  shore,  setting  them  off  into  another  gust  of 
laughter,  and  turned  once  more  toward  the  stern. 

Hope  awakened  in  the  breast  of  the  disconsolate 
man  leaning  against  the  stump  at  sight  of  the  activi 
ties  aboard.  His  eyes  lighted.  His  lips  moved. 

" What  —  what  you  tryin'  to  do,  Abe?"  he 
faltered. 

"  Trying  to  get  your  boat  over  this  dam,  Mr. 
Offutt,"  replied  the  one  addressed.  "Perhaps  you 
may  have  noticed  that  it  isn't  moving  very  fast 
right  now." 

It  was  clear  now  that  this  man  was  to  be  laughed 
at,  and  the  people  of  New  Salem  laughed  joyously, 
uproariously,  even  down  to  the  children,  who  laughed 
because  the  others  did,  and  because  they  thought 
the  man  in  the  boat  was  making  faces  at  them.  And 
to  please  them,  he  did  make  faces  at  them  as  he  con 
tinued  to  move  sacks  and  barrels  and  sides  of  pork 
from  the  stern  of  the  boat  to  the  bow,  overhanging 
the  river  below  the  dam. 

Under  a  constant  fire  of  suggestion,  serious  and 
facetious,  the  tall  boatman  continued  to  labor  with 
the  cargo,  bringing  it  bit  by  bit  into  the  projecting 
bow.  In  course  of  time  the  big,  cumbrous  craft 
began  to  teeter,  to  seesaw  on  the  dam  which  held  it, 
as  he  passed  back  and  forth.  Each  time  the  bow 
dipped  beneath  his  weight,  a  shout  of  warning  went 
up  from  the  banks,  topped  off  with  a  shrill  scream 
from  the  unhappy  Mr.  Offutt.  Each  time  that  it 
dipped,  the  tall  boatman  watched  it,  with  careful 


The  Man  in  the  Flatboat  17 

and  calculating  observation,  and  immediately 
brought  forward  another  piece  of  cargo. 

At  last  he  brought  forward  no  more.  Standing 
in  the  bow,  he  surveyed  the  grinning  crowd  with  sad 
visage. 

''You  remind  me  of  a  man  I  used  to  know  in 
Kentucky,"  he  said  to  them,  after  a  pause.  "One 
night  he  got  lost  in  a  storm.  It  was  thundering 
pretty  bad.  All  of  a  sudden  there  was  a  tremen 
dous  crash  that  lasted  for  a  minute.  The  man 
dropped  on  his  knees.  'Oh,  Lord,'  he  said,  when  it 
was  over.  '  Oh,  Lord !  If  it  's  all  the  same  to  you, 
give  us  a  little  more  light  and  a  little  less  noise.' 
If  some  one  of  you  people  will  fetch  me  an  auger 
I  can  get  along  without  his  conversation  while  he 
goes  to  get  it. ' ' 

The  people  of  New  Salem  roared  again  with 
delight  at  the  tale.  William  Munson,  chief  hand  in 
the  mill  and  chief  swain  among  those  who  hovered 
about  Rachel  Hall,  disappeared  into  the  building, 
followed  by  the  hoots  and  jeers  of  the  delighted 
audience.  He  emerged  with  an  auger  in  his  hand. 

"How  we  goin'  to  git  it  to  yer?"  queried  Mun 
son,  standing  at  the  edge  of  the  stream. 

"Throw  it,"  returned  the  tall  boatman,  sitting 
on  the  suspended  bow,  his  heels  dangling  nearly  to 
the  water  beneath. 

Old  John  Cameron  came  into  action.  He  was 
canny  Scotch,  was  old  John  Cameron.  If  the  boat 
must  be  lost,  that  would  be  unfortunate  for  the 


18  A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

owner  of  the  boat.  There  was  no  need,  however,  of 
risking  his  auger.  Whatever  was  going  to  happen 
to  the  boat,  there  was  no  immediate  danger  that  it 
was  going  to  injure  the  dam  in  its  wreck,  and  there 
fore  no  ground  for  sacrifice  on  his  part. 

"Na!  Na!"  he  cried,  in  deep  agitation,  laying 
hand  on  the  arm  of  William  Munson.  *  *  Dinna  heave 
it !  Dinna  heave  it !  Ye  might  droon  it,  lad ! ' ' 

Mr.  Offutt,  ignorant  of  any  purpose  that  might 
be  behind  the  auger,  but  confident  that  his  boatman 
and  his  boat  stood  in  need  of  it,  pressed  upon  Cam 
eron  with  fantastic  and  alluring  offers  of  reward 
and  insurance.  Munson,  uncertain,  stood  with  arm 
uplifted,  ready  to  hurl  the  tool.  The  spectators 
were  in  a  flurry  of  excitement.  The  tall  boatman 
himself  was  in  the  first  words  of  an  anecdote  suit 
able  to  the  occasion,  when  the  entire  course  of  events 
was  abruptly  arrested  by  the  appearance  on  the 
scene  of  another  actor. 

He  was  a  young  man  with  a  face  of  clean  and 
manly  beauty.  Hair,  the  color  of  bronze,  escaped 
in  waves  from  beneath  his  soft  hat  and  fell  across 
his  temples.  His  skin  was  smooth  and  fair,  with  a 
translucent  blending  in  it  of  brown  and  white.  His 
eyes  were  a  warm,  rich  brown,  behind  gentle  lids. 
His  mouth  was  full-lipped,  tender,  sympathetic.  It 
gave  a  suggestion  of  softness  of  character,  which 
was  brought  into  balance  by  the  firmness  of  his  chin 
and  the  strength  in  his  jaws. 

He  was  mounted  on  a  roan  horse  of  surpassing 


The  Man  in  the  Flatboat  19 

beauty  and  spirit.  He  had  come  among  them  like 
an  apparition.  They  had  not  seen  him  as  he  rode 
toward  them,  following  the  road  from  Springfield, 
splashing  through  the  mud  of  the  rough  way.  They 
had  not  seen  him  until  this  moment,  when  he  drew 
horse  beside  William  Munson.  The  stranger  leaned 
over  and  took  the  auger  from  his  hand,  made  limp 
and  unresisting  by  the  suddenness  of  the  other's 
appearance  and  the  assurance  of  his  action. 

"Let  me  have  the  auger,"  he  said,  quietly,  as  he 
took  it. 

Before  those  who  looked  on  could  bring  their 
thoughts  together,  before  the  bewildered  John  Cam 
eron  could  interpose  objection,  the  young  man  on 
the  roan  had  taken  his  horse  to  the  head  of  the  dam 
and  driven  it  out  upon  it,  with  soft  words  and  gentle 
strokes  of  encouragement. 

Snorting  nervously,  quivering,  with  crouching 
knees,  the  animal  bore  its  rider  out  along  the  nar 
row  way.  The  yellow  waters  of  the  Sangamon 
spurted  against  hoof  and  fetlock.  They  leapt  up  the 
slender,  trembling  limbs.  They  piled  against  shoul 
der  and  flank.  With  soft  words,  with  gentle  strokes, 
the  rider  urged  on,  calm,  cool,  deliberate. 

They  were  ten  feet,  five  feet,  from  the  stranded 
boat.  The  rushing  waves  grappled  with  them, 
striving  to  throw  horse  and  rider  over  the  dam  into 
the  swirling,  sucking  backwater  at  its  foot.  Against 
the  force  of  it  horse  and  rider  leaned.  The  man, 
speaking  softly,  stroked  the  neck  of  the  beast  coax- 


20  A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

ingly.  On  shore  there  was  no  word.  Old  John  Cam 
eron  held  his  breath.  Denton  Offutt  stood  with 
hands  in  his  hair,  his  eyes  staring.  The  boatman 
sitting  on  the  barrel  revived  his  interest  in  life  and 
took  his  eyes  from  the  shifting  lines  which  the 
waves  were  drawing  along  the  gunwales  of  the  boat. 
The  tall  one  arose  from  his  seat  in  the  bow  and 
reached  out  his  hand. 

1  'Beckon  I  can  reach  it  now,  stranger.  Much 
obliged,"  he  said,  a  ring  of  admiration  in  his  voice. 

The  stranger  handed  on  the  auger.  With  quiet 
touch,  he  reined  his  horse's  head  up  stream  and 
spoke  a  word  of  command.  The  animal  brought  its 
feet  carefully  together  on  the  narrow  top  of  the 
dam.  There  was  no  trembling  of  the  limbs  now. 
There  was  no  snorting.  With  every  muscle  steeled, 
with  every  nerve  tense  and  drawn,  it  stood  balancing 
on  the  brink. 

A  muffled  sound,  half  gasp,  half  scream,  broke 
from  the  midst  of  a  group  on  shore.  Sylvia  Hall, 
her  heart  pulseless,  clenched  hands  upraised  as 
though  they  could  hold  the  horse  and  rider  safe 
where  they  balanced,  stood  pale  and  wavering,  not 
knowing  that  it  was  she  who  made  the  sound.  The 
tall  boatman,  auger  in  hand,  gathered  himself, 
ready  to  do  what  might  be  needed  in  the  rapids 
below.  Denton  Offutt  groaned  and  sank  against 
his  stump.  John  Cameron  shut  out  the  sight  with 
his  hands.  Dame  Kutledge  clutched  her  apron 


The  Man  in  the  Flatboat  21 

between  her  fingers  till  it  tore.  Ann  Rutledge 
pressed  against  her  lover's  side. 

The  rider,  hearing  the  sound  of  alarm,  turned 
his  head  toward  the  group  whence  it  had  come,  to 
reassure  with  a  look  those  who  feared.  His  eyes 
were  calm  and  unperturbed  as  they  fell  upon  them; 
but  as  they  fell  upon  the  drawn,  tense  face  of  Sylvia 
they  glowed  warm,  as  the  eyes  of  one  who  sees  a 
vision  of  beauty  for  the  first  time. 

The  danger  of  the  adventure  was  largely  in  the 
minds  of  those  who  saw  it.  They  were  accustomed 
for  the  most  part  to  such  mounts  as  they  could 
bring  from  plow  or  treadmill.  The  roan  was  of 
finer  quality  and  spirit  than  the  horses  of  which 
they  had  had  experience.  It  crept  back  step  by  step 
to  the  end  of  the  dam  with  sure  and  cautious  foot. 
It  scrambled  upon  the  shore  with  a  little  volley  of 
pent-up  snorts.  Nickering,  it  turned  its  head 
towards  its  master,  to  ask  if  it  had  done  well.  He 
smiled  upon  the  animal  and  spoke  tenderly  to  it. 

As  he  smiled  he  raised  his  glance  toward  the 
group  where  Sylvia  was,  and  met  hers  full  upon 
him.  Swiftly  as  she  turned  aside,  she  was  not  so 
quick  that  she  did  not  see  the  warmth  which  came 
swiftly  into  his  eyes  beneath  her  look.  With  the 
warmth  still  in  them,  he  drew  his  horse  behind  the 
crowd  to  avoid  the  marveling  applause  bestowed 
upon  him  by  those  who  had  watched,  and  modestly 
retired  from  their  sight. 

It  was  not  hard  to  escape  them.    Their  attention 


22  A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

was  not  long  diverted  from  the  wreck,  where  the 
sad-faced  boatman  was  now  down  on  his  knees,  bor 
ing  a  hole  with  his  auger  through  the  planks  in  the 
bow.  In  a  moment  it  was  done.  In  another  moment 
the  other  of  the  crew  was  swept  from  his  seat  on  the 
barrel  by  the  long  arm  of  his  fellow,  and  the  barrel 
itself  was  rolled  far  forward.  Another  barrel,  and 
another,  was  added  to  it.  The  vessel  careened 
beneath  their  weight.  The  stern  lifted  clear  of  the 
tumbling  current  behind  it.  Splashing  and  churn 
ing,  the  water  in  the  craft  surged  forward,  and 
spouted  through  the  hole  in  the  planking.  Denton 
Offutt,  comprehending  at  last,  arose  from  the  stump 
with  a  mighty  shout. 

" Hurrah  for  Abe!  Hurrah  for  Abe  Lincoln!" 
he  cried  at  the  top  of  his  shrill  voice.  "I  told  you 
he  was  smart !  I  told  you  he  was  smart ! ' ' 

As  it  was  the  first  time  he  had  opened  his  mouth 
in  direct  address  to  the  crowd  during  the  morning, 
there  were  grounds  for  disputing  the  statement  of 
the  excited  boat  owner,  but  no  one  was  in  a  mood 
to  do  so.  Instead,  they  added  their  voices  to  his, 
acclaiming  the  knowledge  and  daring  of  Abe  Lin 
coln,  the  tall  boatman,  with  a  noise  that  could  have 
been  heard  in  the  last  log-house  in  the  settlement, 
if  anyone  had  been  left  there  to  hear  it. 

The  boat  was  drained.  The  hole  was  plugged 
up  by  the  long  boatman.  A  rope  was  passed.  The 
craft  was  dragged  from  her  dangerous  perch  by 
the  men  ashore  and  floated  in  the  stream  below. 


The  Man  in  the  Flatboat  23 

Denton  Offutt,  as  exuberant  as  he  had  been  miser 
able,  demanded  the  instant  attendance  of  all  New 
Salem  at  the  tavern,  and  forthwith  started  thither, 
his  arm  linked  through  the  angular  elbow  of  his 
boatman;  on  the  other  side  of  whom  with  an  arm 
linked  through  the  other  angular  elbow,  marched 
James  Rutledge,  descendant  of  the  Eutledges  of 
South  Carolina,  keeper  of  the  inn  of  New  Salem 
and  part  owner  in  the  dam  that  had  brought  it  all 
about. 

As  they  went,  a  young  man  on  a  roan  horse, 
climbing  the  road  that  led  from  the  river  to  the 
village,  turned  to  look  back  on  the  shouting  crowd 
he  left  behind.  One  there  was  who  took  no  part  in 
the  demonstration.  One  there  was  whose  blue  eyes 
followed  him  in  his  climbing,  whose  glance  fell 
abashed  before  his  own  as  he  turned.  With  a 
warmth  in  his  beautiful  brown  eyes,  he  wheeled  into 
the  village  street  at  the  brow  of  the  hill,  and  was 
lost  to  sight. 

That  was  a  big  day  in  the  history  of  New 
Salem — bigger  than  they  knew,  though  they  held  it 
in  vast  importance.  That  night,  in  the  mingling  of 
many  potations,  Denton  Offutt,  happy  beyond 
description,  made  open  declaration,  among  other 
things,  that  he  was  coming  to  New  Salem  to  open 
a  store,  and  that  he  was  going  to  make  Abe  Lincoln 
his  clerk,  soon  as  ever  Abe  Lincoln  should  return 
from  New  Orleans,  whither  he  was  taking  the  boat. 
He  furthermore  asseverated  that  Abe  Lincoln  was 


24  A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness     . 

the  smartest  man  in  the  United  States,  and  could 
wrastle  any  man  in  Illinois;  in  which  statements 
none  felt  presently  inclined  to  dispute  him. 

In  the  next  room  was  to  be  heard  the  even  voice 
of  Abraham  Lincoln  in  narrative  mood,  punctuated 
at  intervals  by  the  hearty,  uproarious  laughter  of 
the  young  men  of  Salem.  He  was  the  man  of  the 
hour. 


CHAPTER  H 
THE  BKAVE  WHO  SHOULD  HAVE  DIED 

AT  the  right  angle  formed  where  the  clear  waters 
of  the  Black  River  flow  into  the  tawny  floods 
of  the  Mississippi,  in  the  years  that  have  been,  was 
the  village  of  Saukenuk,  a  town  of  the  Sacs  and  the 
Foxes,  the  town  of  Black  Hawk's  people.  It  was  a 
village  of  some  five  hundred  lodges,  large,  comfort 
able,  substantial.  The  houses  were  placed  symmet 
rically,  with  equal  spaces  between  them  and  at  an 
even  distance  from  the  open  space  through  the  cen 
ter  of  the  town,  which  served  at  once  for  street  and 
common.  At  the  point  of  land,  the  apex  of  the 
angle,  was  the  lodge  of  Black  Hawk,  more  preten 
tious  than  the  others  and  somewhat  separated  from 
them  by  a  greater  space  surrounding  it.  About  the 
whole  was  a  palisade  of  brush,  through  which  a 
gateway  opened  to  each  cardinal  point  of  the 
compass. 

Not  far  to  the  east  of  the  village  a  hill  arose 
abruptly  from  the  plain  to  a  height  of  about  two 
hundred  feet,  overlooking  town  and  rivers  and 
much  of  the  country  'round  about.  Its  steeper  sides 
were  covered  with  woods  and  thickets.  Upon  its 
lesser  slopes  were  patches  of  the  fields  of  corn  and 
potatoes  and  beans,  which  spread  over  the  rich  soil 

25 


26  A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

in  picturesque  variety  about  its  base.  At  the  foot  of 
the  hill,  along  the  banks  of  Bock  River,  crept  a 
beautiful  grove  of  oaks  and  elms  and  maples, 
fringed  with  willows  that  grew  at  the  water's  edge. 
Beneath  the  trees  were  the  graves  of  generations 
of  Sacs  and  Foxes.  It  was  the  Silent  City,  the  City 
of  the  Dead,  sacred  and  holy  to  the  Indian. 

It  was  mid-June  in  the  year  1831.  Black  Hawk 
stood  upon  the  summit  of  the  hill,  called  by  his  lov 
ing  people  Black  Hawk's  Watchtower.  Full  of 
years  was  Black  Hawk;  but  his  slight,  spare  frame 
was  straight  and  vigorous.  His  red  lips  were  full 
and  mobile ;  his  nose  was  sharp  and  hooked,  like  the 
beak  of  the  hawk  for  which  he  was  named;  his  eyes 
flared  and  gleamed  with  emotion,  or  grew  dull  and 
heavy  with  sorrow.  This  day  the  shadow  of  sad 
ness  had  fallen  across  them  as  they  gazed  upon  the 
panorama  of  river,  field  and  woodland,  his  domain 
for  many  years,  which  it  had  been  given  him  by  his 
people  to  keep  for  his  people. 

He  was  not  alone  as  he  stood  there.  Beside  him, 
close  pressing,  her  tiny  hand  clasping  his  own,  her 
cheek  upon  bis  shoulder,  stood  an  Indian  maiden, 
beautiful  beyond  the  wont  of  her  kind.  Slender, 
straight,  graceful,  rounded  into  the  exquisite  con 
tour  of  perfect  maidenhood;  dusky  cheeks  like  the 
autumn  skies  when  the  last  sunlight  flushes  across 
them ;  lips  delicately  curved,  hinting  of  song  and  of 
love,  of  scorn  and  of  hate ;  eyes  as  dark  and  as  deep 
as  the  sea  where  the  depth  of  water  makes  it  black ; 


The  Brave  Who  Should  Have  Died      27 

eyes  as  potent  as  the  sea  sleeping  beneath  summer 
zephyrs  ere  the  storm  awakes;  teeth  of  snow;  radi 
ant,  tender,  loving,  reliant,  fiery,  high-souled,  she 
was  one  to  dream  of  through  the  evenings  of  June — 
one  to  cling  to  through  the  storms  of  January.  She 
was  Feather  Heart,  daughter  of  Black  Hawk, 
beloved  of  the  tribe. 

'  *  Nay, ' '  she  was  saying,  in  a  voice  like  the  night 
winds  through  the  pine  trees,  like  the  shaded  waters 
plashing  among  the  white  stones  in  the  brook;  "nay, 
my  father  should  not  be  downcast.  Many  years  has 
the  Black  Hawk  led  his  people  to  the  planting  since 
Quash-Quame,  senseless  from  their  fire-water,  sold 
our  lands  to  the  whites,  and  they  have  not  come  to 
take  it  away  from  us.  Surely  they  will  let  us  go  in 
peace  till  you,  and  even  I,  my  father,  have  passed 
on  to  the  happy  hunting  grounds,  where  my  mother 
sings  for  us  through  the  long  night." 

"The  Hawk  knows!  The  Hawk  knows!" 
responded  the  chief,  with  heavy  heart.  "What 
should  my  little  Feather  Heart  know  of  the  whites? 
Even  now  they  are  upon  us.  Look!  See,  their 
lodges  are  at  our  gates!" 

He  pointed  across  the  vista  to  the  eastward, 
where  a  little  cabin  stood  in  the  midst  of  a  culti 
vated  field.  About  the  door  played  a  white  child. 
Within,  a  white  woman  busied  herself  about  her 
household  duties,  singing  as  she  worked;  singing  a 
song  of  the  whites,  a  hymn  of  the  church  militant. 
Beyond,  scattered  through  the  distance,  other  cab- 


28  A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

ins,  of  logs  roughly  thrown  together,  told  of  the 
forefoot  of  advancing  civilization. 

"What  should  Feather  Heart  know  of  them?" 
continued  Black  Hawk,  restraining  his  glance 
from  roving  among  the  scattered  houses.  "Why  do 
the  whites  tear  our  fences?  WTiy  do  they  plow  our 
fields?  Why  do  they  slay  our  horses  when  they 
rove?  Why  do  they  take  our  women,  to  beat  them 
and  send  them  back,  broken,  to  us?  Why  do  they 
taunt  and  revile  us?  What  should  Feather  Heart 
know  of  their  ways?  It  is  that  they  may  tempt  the 
Hawk  to  strike;  that  they  may  drive  our  young 
men  to  revenge,  so  that  they  may  call  their  warriors 
from  their  white  lodges  in  the  land  of  smoke  and 
drive  us  across  the  Father  of  Waters.  Many  years 
has  Black  Hawk  led  his  people  forth  to  the  plant 
ing,  and  much  wisdom  has  he  got  of  the  ways  of  the 
whites!" 

The  bitterness  of  his  knowledge  was  in  his  tones. 
For  a  moment  there  was  silence.  Feather  Heart 
spoke : 

' '  But  is  it  not  that  Quash-Quame  made  it  so  with 
the  whites  that  we  should  live  and  plant  here  till 
they  need  our  fields  for  their  lodges  ?  Surely,  there 
is  room  here  for  them,  and  for  us.  Surely  they  will 
not  drive  us  away!" 

"Feather  Heart  knows  nought  of  the  blackness 
in  the  heart  of  the  white  man,"  the  chief  returned, 
and  was  silent. 


The  Brave  Who  Should  Have  Died      29 

The  slumbering  seas  within  her  eyes  awoke 
before  the  storm  that  sprang  into  her  soul. 

"Then  shall  the  Black  Hawk  fight!"  Her  voice 
was  sharp  as  the  wind  that  whips  the  wavetops  into 
spindrift;  harsh  as  the  spray  that  dashes  against 
the  rocks  of  islands  in  the  sea.  "The  Hawk  has 
many  young  men. .  The  Hawk  has  braves  that  are 
as  the  trees  in  the  forest.  The  paleface  shall  not 
drive  us  from  our  planting.  The  spirits  of  our  dead 
cry  out  to  us  from  the  Silent  City.  Shall  the  Sauk 
not  hear  their  cry  ? ' ' 

"The  braves  of  the  Great  Father  are  as  the 
leaves  on  the  trees,"  returned  the  chief,  sadly. 
"Feather  Heart  must  speak  no  more  of  fighting." 

His  voice  grew  stern.  His  firm  eye  met  hers. 
There  was  command  in  word  and  look.  She  obeyed, 
though  the  storm  still  surged  in  her  eyes.  For  a 
space  it  swept  across  them,  and  was  gone;  the 
obedience  of  the  Indian  daughters  was  without 
question. 

The  storm  was  gone  when  she  raised  her  eyes 
to  gaze  upon  the  bluffs  lying  black  against  the 
reclining  sun  on  the  distant  side  of  the  mighty  river 
that  rolled  to  the  west  of  them.  It  was  gone,  and  in 
its  place  there  was  a  trace  of  sadness  which  she 
would  have  hidden  from  her  father  by  turning  her 
head  from  his  shoulder,  where  it  had  nestled  again 
with  the  going  down  of  the  storm. 

"The  party  of  our  young  men  which  went  lately 
among  the  Ihoways ;  was  it  not  the  party  that  came 


30  A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

back  to  our  village  this  morning?"  she  said,  at 
length. 

Black  Hawk  aroused  himself  from  revery  to 
answer  that  it  was. 

There  was  a  pause. 

"Did  not  the  White  Eagle  go  forth  with  them?" 
continued  the  girl. 

"The  White  Eagle  went  with  them." 

"He  came  not  back!"  murmured  the  maiden. 

There  was  a  pause. 

"Did  our  young  men  say  why  it  was  that  he 
came  not  back?"  Her  voice  was  as  though  she 
spoke  of  that  which  was  nothing;  for  this  maiden 
was  an  Indian  maiden.  For  a  space  there  was  no 
sound  between  them ;  only  the  call  of  the  thrush,  the 
song  of  the  robin  saluting  the  setting  sun,  the  plain 
tive  cry  of  the  cat-bird  from  the  thicket  behind  them 
rose  to  the  top  of  the  hill  where  they  stood. 

The  voice  of  Black  Hawk  floated  out  upon  the 
dying  afternoon,  low,  intoned,  sepulchral.  "The 
White  Eagle  went  forth  into  the  west  with  his  death 
song  in  his  throat,"  he  said.  "The  White  Eagle 
will  come  no  more  among  his  people.  He  has  gone 
to  the  land  of  his  fathers ;  he  walks  to-night  in  the 
happy  hunting  ground.  Such  is  the  law  of  blood 
between  the  Ihoways  and  the  Sacs." 

Sad  as  the  lonely  sea  were  the  eyes  of  the  Indian 
maiden  as  the  words  of  her  father  sank  into  her 
heart.  Cold  as  the  vacant  depths  of  the  sea  was  her 
voice  when  she  made  response.  "It  is  well,"  she 


The  Brave  Who  Should  Have  Died      31 

said.  "If  the  hand  of  the  White  Eagle  hath  been 
raised  against  the  friend  of  the  Sacs,  the  hand  of 
death  must  be  raised  against  the  White  Eagle.  But 
I  did  not  know  that  he  had  slain  among  the  Iho- 
ways!"  she  added,  with  a  tone  of  misery  in  her 
voice  which  she  could  not  restrain,  Indian  maiden 
though  she  was. 

"It  was  not  he.  It  was  his  brother  Half  Ear 
who  slew,"  Black  Hawk  made  answer,  after  a 
pause. 

A  tremor  passed  across  the  beautiful  shoulders 
of  Feather  Heart  as  she  heard.  Now  of  all  times 
she  dared  not  turn  her  face  to  look  upon  the  face 
of  her  father.  If  she  had  turned,  she  would  have 
seen  it  all  tenderness,  all  compassion,  full  of  under 
standing;  she  would  have  thrown  herself  into  his 
firm  arms  and  cried  out  against  life.  But  Feather 
Heart  did  not  turn.  Feather  Heart,  daughter  of  a 
chief,  erect,  with  head  thrown  high,  looked  across 
the  great  river  into  that  West  whither  White  Eagle 
had  gone  with  the  song  of  death  in  his  throat,  and 
spoke  again  with  a  voice  as  gentle  in  her  soft  throat 
as  the  plashing  of  the  surf  upon  the  margin  01 
southern  seas. 

"Tell  me,"  she  said. 

Black  Hawk  complied.  "Half  Ear  loves  the 
strong  waters.  He  knew  not  what  he  did  when  he 
struck  down  one  who  was  as  a  brother.  It  was  in 
the  hunting  across  the  river,  before  the  snows.  The 
man  was  of  the  Ihoways.  They  cried  out  for  blood, 


32  A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

as  the  law  runs.  The  time  came  when  our  young 
men  were  to  go  to  them  with  the  one  who  had  slain. 
Half  Ear,  lying  sick  with  a  fever  in  his  mother's 
lodge,  could  not  go.  It  was  needful  that  some  one 
of  the  blood  give  blood  back  to  the  Ihoways,  lest 
much  blood  should  run.  It  was  the  word  of  the 
Sauk  that  it  should  be  so."  The  voice  of  the  chief 
lowered.  "The  White  Eagle  went  forth  into  the 
land  beyond  the  rivers,  which  is  the  land  of  the 
Ihoways,  with  the  song  of  death  in  his  throat. ' ' 

There  was  no  sound  from  the  Indian  maiden  as 
she  stood  with  her  face  fixed  upon  the  west.  There 
was  no  motion  of  her  body.  It  was  as  though  she 
were  already  one  of  those  who  dwelt  in  the  Silent 
City.  The  sun,  sinking  into  the  sky  where  she 
gazed,  struck  red  upon  the  surface  of  the  Father  of 
Waters.  Across  the  sky  spread  the  color  of  blood, 
softened  into  beauty  by  the  brush  of  nature. 
Through  the  hush  that  was  about  them  came  the 
laughter  of  children  in  the  village  beneath,  the  song 
of  the  robin,  the  trilling  of  the  thrush,  the  plaintive 
call  of  the  cat-bird. 

"It  is  —  it  is  well,"  murmured  the  Indian 
maiden. 

Deep  over  the  face  of  the  Father  of  Waters 
flushed  the  glow  of  the  setting  sun.  Deep  across  the 
fields  and  forest  settled  the  hush  of  eventide.  Deep 
into  the  heart  of  the  Indian  maiden,  the  daughter  of 
the  chief,  sank  the  sorrow  of  the  Law  of  Blood. 
Motionless,  silent,  she  stood  there,  her  face  ruddy 


The  Brave  Who  Should  Have  Died       33 

in  the  glow  that  came  from  sky  and  water.  Motion 
less,  silent,  the  chief,  her  father,  stood  behind  her, 
gazing  beyond  her  slight  form,  gazing  beyond  the 
red,  flowing  river ;  gazing  beyond  all  that  was  within 
the  ken  of  eyes. 

As  he  gazed,  a  low,  sharp  cry  came  from  the  lips 
of  the  girl.  He  was  at  her  side.  He  looked  swiftly 
into  her  face.  Her  lips  were  parted.  Her  cheeks 
were  flushed  with  a  higher  flush  than  that  of  the 
dying  day.  Her  eyes  were  fixed  upon  the  broad 
bosom  of  the  Mississippi.  His  own  glance  followed 
them ;  he  saw  what  she  saw. 

Black  against  the  rushing  red  of  the  current, 
leaving  a  wake  that  closed  red  behind,  something 
came  toward  the  shore  with  slow  and  even  motion. 
Beside  it,  like  wings  of  the  eagle,  feathering 
splashes  of  water  came  and  went  rhythmically,  fall 
ing  back  into  the  smooth  surface  in  ruddy  drops 
and  films  through  which  shone  the  glow  that  was 
on  the  water.  The  plashing  sound  of  them  came 
faintly  to  those  who  watched  from  the  Tower. 

For  an  enduring  silence  they  stood  there. 
Nearer  and  nearer  came  that  which  was  black 
against  the  glow  on  the  water.  The  red  turned  to 
pink,  to  grey;  that  which  was  dark  against  the 
waves  came  closer  still.  It  was  the  head  of  one  who 
swam.  It  came  near  the  shore.  It  stopped.  It  arose 
from  the  water.  A  young  Indian,  magnificent  in 
grace  and  strength,  stood  in  the  shallows.  He 
breathed  deeply.  He  plashed  to  the  shore.  He 


34  A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

walked  toward  the  village  and  into  the  gate  that  was 
by  the  lodge  of  Black  Hawk. 

Black  Hawk  bent  his  glance  upon  the  Indian 
maiden.  Her  face  was  set  against  the  West.  Her 
eyes  were  wide.  Her  lips  moved.  She  spoke.  She 
spoke  to  the  sun  that  was  gone,  to  the  hush  that  was 
about  them,  to  the  star  that  fluttered  in  the  grey  sky 
of  twilight. 

"The  White  Eagle  should  not  have  come,"  she 
said.  Her  tone  was  dead  as  the  sea  when  the  wind 
has  long  laid  dead.  "It  was  the  Law  of  the  Blood. 
It  was  the  word  of  the  Sauk.  My  father  would  not 
have  come  back.  It  were  better  for  him  that  he  had 
not  come." 

"It  were  better  for  him  that  he  had  not  come," 
echoed  the  Black  Hawk. 

He  turned  into  the  trail  that  led  to  the  village, 
and  left  her  with  her  face  fixed  upon  the  West, 
whence  the  last  red  of  evening  had  died  into  ashes. 


CHAPTER  III 
LOVELJGHT 

GREAT  was  the  grief  that  night  in  the  lodge  of 
Light  Foot,  the  mother  of  Half  Ear;  the 
mother  of  the  White  Eagle,  his  brother.  The  Eagle 
had  gone  into  the  land  of  the  Ihoways  for  a  sacri 
fice;  he  had  come  back  living  into  the  land  of  the 
Sacs.  The  eye  of  the  chief  had  looked  aslant  upon 
him.  The  braves  of  the  Sacs  had  made  a  scoff  at 
him.  His  shame  was  upon  the  lodge  of  his  mother ! 

Bitter  were  the  reproaches  heaped  upon  him  by 
Half  Ear,  his  brother,  now  well  of  the  fever  which 
had  detained  him  from  the  sacrifice.  Long  and  elab 
orate  were  the  repinings  of  Light  Foot.  All  through 
the  night,  while  her  son,  the  White  Eagle,  lay  at 
her  feet,  Light  Foot  mumbled  her  woe,  from  time 
to  time  casting  over  her  locks  dust  from  the  floor 
of  her  lodge. 

"He  of  the  hollow  heart  has  come  back,"  she 
moaned.  "The  White  Eagle  went  that  his  brother 
Half  Ear  might  live.  The  White  Eagle  has  come 
back ;  now  must  we  all  die,  for  the  law  of  blood  has 
been  broken.  Like  the  eagle  went  he  forth;  like  the 
duck  he  came  back,  swimming  in  the  water.  His 
mother  is  the  mother  of  a  coward.  Old  squaws  will 
laugh  at  her ;  the  children  of  young  squaws  will  mock 

35 


36  A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

his  brother  with  their  fingers;  his  brother  is  the 
brother  of  a  coward.  Half  Ear  is  brave;  but  the 
White  Eagle  is  a  coward;  Half  Ear  is  a  friend  of 
the  whites  with  much  honor;  the  White  Eagle  is  the 
enemy  of  his  own  people,  and  will  be  made  to  work 
in  the  corn  with  the  squaws.  He  will  hoe  corn  when 
his  brother  goes  to  the  hunt!" 

Thus  through  the  night  she  moaned.  If  the 
White  Eagle  heard  her,  he  made  no  sign  or  answer, 
but  lay  peacefully  at  her  feet,  until  the  day  broke, 
and  the  Sauk  song  to  the  sun  reverberated  through 
the  village.  He  made  no  answer  when  Half  Ear, 
lowering  over  the  parched  corn  which  Light  Foot 
gave  them  to  eat,  upbraided  him  anew  for  cowardice 
and  perfidy.  With  eyes  cast  down,  with  even  breath, 
he  ate  his  corn  in  silence. 

Surly  and  ill-natured,  Half  Ear  left  the  lodge  of 
his  mother  as  soon  as  he  had  eaten  his  corn.  With 
hanging  head  and  muttering  lips  he  slunk  past  the 
corner  of  the  bark  house  and  slipped  stealthily 
behind  the  rows  to  the  gate  in  the  palisade  of  brush 
that  ran  along  the  eastern  side  of  the  village. 

"He  goes  to  his  friends,  the  palefaces,"  mumbled 
Light  Foot  to  herself. 

Sinister  and  forbidding  was  Half  Ear.  In  his 
youth  he  was  the  Blue  Wolf ;  now  he  was  Half  Ear, 
for  that  one  half  of  his  right  ear  had  been  lopped  off 
in  a  drunken  fight  with  his  friends,  the  whites.  He 
had  a  lean  and  hungry  look,  had  Half  Ear.  His  nose 
was  thin  and  twisted.  His  eyes,  close  together, 


Lovelight  37 

seemed  to  look  at  divergent  things  though  their  gaze 
was  straight.  His  mouth  was  sharp  and  drawn.  His 
ears,  so  much  as  were  left  him,  were  small,  and  stood 
abruptly  from  his  head.  The  sun  shone  yellow  and 
sick  through  them.  Of  all  the  Sacs  in  Saukenuk,  he 
alone  did  not  stand  upright  on  his  heels,  as  a  Sauk 
should.  His  voice  was  thick,  and  shook  when  he 
spoke.  About  him  was  the  air  of  the  fallen,  the 
degenerate.  He  was  victim  to  the  firewater  of  the 
whites.  That,  in  the  beginning  and  the  end,  was  the 
wickedness  of  Half  Ear. 

"See!  Half  Ear  steals  away  from  before  the 
faces  of  the  people,"  wailed  Light  Foot,  when  that 
one  had  left.  "Such  is  the  shame  that  the  Eagle 
brings  to  the  wigwam  of  his  mother ! ' '  She  fell  again 
to  moaning  and  casting  dust  upon  her  head. 

White  Eagle,  looking  sorrowfully  upon  her, 
passed  from  the  lodge  and  walked  along  the  village 
street.  As  he  went,  silence  fell  upon  those  who  were 
gathered  there,  like  the  hush  that  comes  upon  sing 
ing  birds  when  the  shadow  of  the  eagle  hovers  over 
the  copse.  With  half  glances,  they  whispered  to  each 
other  behind  their  hands.  The  warriors  and  the 
young  hunters  grunted  their  contempt  for  a  Sauk 
who  had  betrayed  the  word  of  a  Sauk,  given  unto 
the  friends  of  the  Sacs. 

' '  Like  an  eagle  he  went  away ;  he  comes  back  like 
a  duck,  squattering  in  the  water,"  mumbled  White 
Cloud,  the  prophet,  taking  up  the  words  of  another, 
after  the  manner  of  prophets. 


38  A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

"His  liver  is  the  liver  of  a  chicken!"  replied  the 
Black  Hawk,  walking  by  the  side  of  his  prophet.  His 
look  was  more  sad  than  angry  when  he  said  it. 

The  White  Eagle,  hearing  their  contumely,  see 
ing  their  scornful  nods  and  gestures  as  he  passed, 
walked  to  the  end  of  the  village  street  with  slow  step 
and  head  held  proudly  in  the  air;  walked  past  the 
lodge  of  Black  Hawk  with  eye  unbending;  deigned 
not  a  glance  toward  the  door  of  the  lodge  where 
Feather  Heart  stood  watching  him;  walked  to  the 
southern  gate,  turned,  and  made  his  way  back  among 
the  scoffers  to  his  mother's  lodge.  There,  with  eyes 
fixed  in  sadness  upon  the  fire  where  Light  Foot 
parched  corn,  setting  aside  his  proud  demeanor,  he 
sat  grieving  through  the  hours  of  morning. 

The  sound  of  a  drum  rattled  through  the  village ; 
the  drum  of  the  crier.  White  Eagle,  sitting  on  the 
ground  of  his  mother's  lodge,  raised  his  head,  alert 
and  listening.  He  questioned  Light  Foot  with  a  look. 

"This  is  the  day  of  the  dance,  when  the  braves 
of  the  Sacs  tell  of  the  deeds  they  have  done  since  the 
last  planting,"  said  the  woman,  in  a  doleful  voice, 
making  lament.  "There  is  none  from  the  lodge  of 
Light  Foot  to  go  among  the  warriors  with  a  tale  of 
bravery;  for  the  White  Eagle  has  turned  into  a 
duck,  and  Half  Ear  is  brought  low  by  the  disgrace 
of  his  brother!" 

The  grief  of  the  woman  awakened  again.  She 
went  on  dismally,  rocking  and  groaning  on  the  floor 
of  her  lodge. 


Lovelight  39 

The  drum  rolled  once  more.  Cries  arose  'from 
the  warriors,  gathering  in  a  square  in  the  center  of 
the  village.  One  leaped  into  their  midst  to  chant  in 
loud  voice  of  the  deeds  of  valor  he  had  done  since 
the  last  dance;  of  his  mighty  hunting;  of  slaying 
braves  of  the  Sioux  tribe,  their  deadly  enemies;  of 
stirring  ventures  and  close  escapes.  He  was  done. 
The  warriors  raised  a  mighty  cry.  The  drum  rattled. 
Another  advanced  to  the  center  of  the  square,  and 
chanted  his  tale.  Another,  and  another,  through 
hours,  they  came  and  told  of  their  deeds. 

White  Eagle,  sitting  in  the  lodge  of  his  mother, 
listened  long  to  the  sounds  of  the  dance.  The  last 
brave  chanted  his  story ;  the  drum  beat  for  the  last 
time.  The  dance  was  finished.  Loud  shouts  went  up 
from  the  warriors  and  hunters;  the  final  ceremony. 
In  a  moment  they  would  disperse. 

Above  the  shouting  floated  the  sound  of  a  young, 
strong  voice,  raised  in  lamentations ;  in  the  farewell 
song  of  the  Sacs.  White  Eagle,  stripped  of  feathers, 
with  his  face  raised  to  the  sky,  chanting  the  song  of 
farewell,  entered  the  square.  He  was  met  by  out 
cries.  Some  of  the  young  men  would  have  laid  hand 
on  him.  To  the  cries  and  the  violence  he  paid  no 
heed,  walking  to  the  center  of  the  square  with  face 
raised  to  the  sky  and  the  song  on  his  lips. 

11  Listen!"  he  said,  from  the  center,  sweeping  his 
eye  about  him  as  he  turned  to  face  them  all  in  suc 
cession.  "Hear  the  White  Eagle  before  he  goes. 
When  the  night  comes  the  White  Eagle  will  be  gone. 


40  A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

He  will  chant  his  morning  song  to  the  sun  in  the 
forests,  far  from  the  lodges  of  his  people.  His 
mother's  lodge  shall  know  him  no  more;  no  more 
will  his  voice  be  heard  in  the  council  or  the  dance; 
no  more  will  he  ride  to  the  hunt  with  his  brothers. 
He  sings  the  song  of  farewell.  But  before  he  goes, 
let  the  brothers  of  the  Eagle  listen  to  what  he  will 
tell  them. 

"The  White  Eagle  has  been  brave  in  the  hunt 
and  on  the  war  path.  The  young  men  of  the  Sacs 
have  said  so;  the  old  braves  have  looked  with  kind 
eyes  upon  him.  His  spear  is  long;  his  arrows  are 
true ;  his  feet  are  swift  in  the  war  path ;  many  scalps 
dangle  at  his  belt,  though  he  is  small  in  years.  Never 
has  the  liver  of  the  Eagle  turned  soft  in  danger; 
never  has  foe  seen  his  back;  the  bear  and  the 
panther  have  fled  from  his  knife — this  his  people 
knew.  But  now  his  people,  the  people  of  his  father 
and  his  father 's  father,  have  turned  their  faces  from 
him.  Now,  in  the  setting  of  a  sun,  their  fingers  have 
been  crooked  against  him.  He  goes  from  the  land 
of  his  people,  from  before  the  faces  of  his  brother, 
to  make  his  bed  with  the  wolves  and  to  lie  in  the 
caves  of  the  hills.  But  before  he  goes,  let  his 
brothers  listen  to  what  he  tells  them. 

"For  the  Law  of  the  Blood  went  he  forth  to  the 
land  of  the  Ihoways,  singing  his  death  song.  His 
brother  had  slain ;  his  brother  could  not  go  to  fulfil 
the  law  between  our  people  and  the  people  of  the 
Ihoways  that  says  'blood  of  the  blood  for  blood.* 


Lovelight  41 

The  White  Eagle  went  that  the  Law  of  the  Blood 
should  be  fulfilled ;  that  the  word  of  the  Sauk  should 
not  stand  as  naught  in  the  ears  of  the  Ihoways. 

"He  came  to  their  village  with  the  young  men 
who  went  forth  with  him.  Singing  his  death  song  he 
went  among  the  Ihoways.  Singing  his  death  song  he 
held  out  his  hands,  making  the  sign  of  the  Law  of  the 
Blood.  The  young  men  who  were  with  him,  singing 
no  song,  turned  their  backs  and  went  again  to  their 
people.  White  Eagle,  singing  his  song,  was  among 
the  Ihoways. 

' '  They  bound  him  to  a  stake.  They  built  a  fire  at 
his  feet.  They  shouted  about  him  with  spears  and 
hatchets  when  the  fire  burned.  The  White  Eagle 
made  no  cry.  On  his  lips  were  the  words  of  his  death 
song,  raised  to  the  Great  Spirit;  in  his  heart  was 
gladness,  for  he  was  fulfilling  the  law.  The  fire 
burned  his  feet; — look,  you  may  see" — the  lower 
part  of  his  limbs  were  seared  and  sore.  * '  They  struck 
him  with  their  spears ; — look,  you  may  see" — he  laid 
open  his  shirt  of  doeskin;  there  were  red  wounds 
upon  his  breast  and  shoulders.  "They  danced  the 
dance  of  death  about  him.  He  made  no  cry ;  for  was 
he  not  a  Sauk,  fulfilling  the  word  of  the  Sacs? 

"The  fire  burned.  The  spears  struck  him.  His 
strength  went  away.  He  hung  limp  in  the  cords  that 
bound  him.  His  voice  was  raised  in  the  song  of 
death.  His  eyes  gazed  into  their  eyes ;  for  the  White 
Eagle  is  a  Sauk,  and  knows  how  a  Sauk  should  die. 
At  the  last,  when  death  was  upon  him,  the  braves  of 


42  A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

the  Ihoways  raised  a  mighty  shout.  'He  is  too  brave 
to  die!'  they  cried.  'It  was  his  brother  who  slew. 
The  law  is  fulfilled!' 

' 'They  stamped  out  the  fires  that  burned  him. 
They  threw  down  the  spears  that  made  him  bleed. 
They  unbound  the  thongs  of  deer  skin.  With  much 
shouting  they  led  him  to  the  wigwam  of  the  chief  of 
the  village.  For  a  day  they  made  honor  to  him,  hail 
ing  him,  dancing  and  singing  before  the  door  of  the 
wigwam ;  the  squaw  of  the  chief  healed  his  wounds. 
When  they  were  healed,  they  led  him  forth  and  bade 
him  go  to  the  village  of  his  people  with  honor  upon 
him ;  a  score  of  their  young  men  went  with  him  even 
to  the  Father  of  Waters. 

"He  came  again  among  his  people  with  a  glad 
heart,  for  life  is  sweet  to  him.  The  eyes  of  the  chief 
fell  aslant  upon  him;  the  eyes  of  old  warriors  shut 
upon  him ;  the  young  men  made  a  mock  of  him ;  chil 
dren  of  squaws  howled  at  his  heels ;  young  maidens 
turned  their  faces;  his  brother  reviled  him;  his 
mother  moaned  that  he  had  come  back.  He  who  had 
been  brave  among  them  was  treated  as  a  coward. 
He  who  was  the  son  of  a  chief  was  made  a  mock  of 
by  children  of  young  squaws.  His  people  turned 
against  him ;  they  believed  his  liver  was  soft  in  the 
face  of  death ;  that  he  had  fled  from  the  Ihoways  and 
the  Law  of  Blood. 

"Now  the  White  Eagle  goes  forth  from  the  home 
of  his  fathers ;  from  the  village  of  the  Sacs  and  the 
Foxes,  his  brothers.  His  lodge  shall  be  the  oak  tree 


Lovelight  43 

in  the  forest;  the  elm  and  the  maple  shall  be  his 
wigwam.  The  squirrel  and  the  thrush  will  be  his 
companions ;  with  the  squirrel  shall  he  eat  nuts  from 
the  tall  trees;  his  voice  shall  be  raised  to  the  sun 
with  the  voice  of  the  thrush.  The  home  of  his  people 
shall  know  him  no  more ;  for  his  people  have  turned 
away  their  eyes  in  the  hour  of  his  honor.  They  did 
not  know.  Now  they  have  heard.  The  White  Eagle 
will  go." 

Passionately  he  sang  his  song  to  them.  The  war 
riors  stood  in  silence,  listening.  The  women  pressed 
behind  them  to  hear,  hushing  their  babes.  His  voice 
intoning  his  story  was  the  only  sound,  save  the 
rustling  of  the  distant  waters  of  the  Father  of 
Waters  and  the  call  of  the  cat-bird  upon  the  Tower. 

As  he  proceeded,  the  eyes  of  the  braves  kindled 
with  interest;  they  lighted  with  the  excitement  of 
listening  to  a  tale  of  bravery.  The  women  whispered 
softly  and  drew  closer  to  one  another,  dreaming 
dreams  for  the  babes  that  were  on  their  arms.  Apart 
from  them,  in  the  solitude  she  had  sought,  half 
hidden  behind  the  drooping  branches  of  a  maple,  a 
beautiful  Indian  maiden  looked  on  and  listened,  with 
a  heart  that  beat  like  the  wings  of  a  bird  flying  to  its 
mate.  Her  eyes  were  like  stars  reflected  in  the  bosom 
of  a  deep  and  tranquil  sea. 

As  his  voice  died  into  stillness  a  mighty  acclaim 
went  up  from  the  assembled  braves.  With  shouts 
that  shook  the  Tower  they  closed  about  him ;  for  the 
White  Eagle  had  ever  been  dear  to  the  hearts  of  his 


44  A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

people ;  their  joy  was  great  in  his  tale.  Among  them 
pressed  the  Black  Hawk.  His  eyes  snapped  with 
happiness.  He  laid  hand  upon  the  shoulder  of  the 
White  Eagle,  who  still  chanted  his  farewell  song, 
returning  the  acclamations  of  his  brothers  with 
haughty  eye. 

"The  White  Eagle  will  stay  with  his  people," 
said  Black  Hawk.  "He  will  have  much  honor;  he 
will  be  made  a  chief  among  them ;  for  the  bravery  of 
the  White  Eagle  is  the  bravery  of  the  Sauk;  his 
honor  will  be  high  among  his  people;  love  will  be 
his  in  the  hearts  of  the  Sacs  and  their  brothers  the 
Foxes." 

A  great  shout  burst  forth  at  the  words  of  the 
chief.  The  Eagle  looked  upon  faces  that  glowed  with 
love  for  him ;  into  eyes  that  gleamed  their  pride  in  a 
Sauk  brave.  He  looked  upon  the  countenances  of 
women,  turned  to  him  in  wide-eyed  admiration.  He 
looked  upon  the  face  of  an  Indian  maiden  of  sur 
passing  loveliness,  all  alight  with  adoration,  in 
among  the  leaves  of  a  drooping  maple. 

"The  White  Eagle  will  stay,"  he  said,  his  eyes 
floating  as  they  gazed  among  the  leaves  of  the 
drooping  maple. 

He  hastened  to  the  lodge  of  Light  Foot,  his 
mother,  to  tell  her.  He  found  her  sitting  on  the 
floor  of  her  lodge,  casting  dust  upon  her  locks.  In 
a  corner,  glaring  spitefully,  with  eyes  that  burned 
with  firewater,  lay  Half  Ear  in  a  huddled  heap. 

"Ah,  who  hath  taught  my  son,  the  White  Eagle, 


Lovelight  45 

to  lie!"  moaned  the  woman.  "Who  hath  taught  the 
White  Eagle  his  lies!" 

He  saluted  her.  She  made  no  response,  save  to 
repeat  in  louder  voice, ' '  Who  hath  taught  the  White 
Eagle  his  lies!" 

The  young  brave  turned  a  pitying  look  from  her 
to  the  one  who  lay  groveling  in  drink  in  the  corner 
of  the  lodge,  and  left  to  join  the  young  men  in  their 
games.  But  his  heart  was  not  in  them;  his  heart 
was  in  among  the  leaves  of  the  drooping  maple, 
dwelling  on  the  vision  of  the  face  he  had  seen  there, 
aglow  with  a  light  which  set  him  afire.  Weary  were 
the  games;  heavy  were  the  hours  until  the  night; 
eager  was  his  soul  for  the  twilight. 

For  this  was  the  eve  of  the  Crane  Dance;  the 
night  of  wooing  among  the  Sacs ;  the  night  when  the 
young  braves  sought  out  their  well  beloved  and 
made  the  test  of  fire.  On  this  night  he  might  enter 
her  lodge  without  hindrance  from  her  father's  spear. 
He  might  kneel  where  she  slept  and  place  the  light 
at  her  side.  If  the  light  burned  on,  she  loved  him 
not ;  if  that  she  breathed  upon  the  light  and  it  flut 
tered  out,  it  was  that  she  loved  him;  and  on  the 
morrow  he  might  come  to  the  door  of  her  father's 
lodge  with  his  love  song,  and  she  would  come  forth 
to  him,  to  be  his  bride  in  the  Crane  Dance.  Thence 
forth  they  would  be  wed.  Such  was  the  custom 
among  them  from  the  time  when  they  dwelt  by  the 
frozen  river  of  the  North,  before  the  Iroquois  drove 
them  forth. 


46  A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

It  was  dusk.  Many  lights  gleamed  and  flickered 
through  the  village.  A  hush  was  upon  the  lodges 
and  in  the  streets.  One  could  almost  hear  the  faint 
rush  of  the  flames  as  they  climbed  from  the  tiny 
torches  into  the  still  night  air. 

A  rustling  at  the  door  of  the  lodge  of  Light  Foot ! 
A  light  breaking  into  the  dusk  that  was  about  the 
lodge !  A  tall,  graceful  figure  poised  for  an  instant 
before  the  door,  till  the  light  should  burn  steadily  and 
surely !  It  was  the  White  Eagle. 

With  eager  step  he  pressed  along  the  open  way. 
Other  lights  he  passed,  but  paid  no  heed.  It  was  the 
solemn  pretense  among  them  all — lovers,  loved  ones, 
and  those  who  dwelt  in  the  lodges  with  the  beloved — 
to  pay  no  heed. 

Swiftly  he  stole  toward  the  lodge  of  Black  Hawk 
at  the  end  of  the  village,  toward  the  lodge  of  Feather 
Heart.  Soft  footsteps  were  about  him;  tiny  blurs 
of  light  melted  the  dusk.  He  paid  no  heed. 

His  shadow  danced  off  into  the  darkness,  pro 
jected  by  the  flickering  light  he  carried.  So  his  heart 
danced  as  he  hastened  toward  the  lodge  of  Feather 
Heart. 

He  was  before  the  door.  He  stopped.  He  hesi 
tated.  The  courage  of  the  Sauk  was  within  him; 
but  he  paused. 

His  hand  was  upon  the  mat  of  rushes  that  hung 
in  the  doorway.  He  raised  it.  He  entered.  His 
light  glowed  within  the  lodge  of  the  Black  Hawk; 
the  lodge  of  Feather  Heart. 


Lovelight  47 

He  passed  among  the  sleepers.  No  eyelid  was 
raised.  That  had  been  their  pretense,  from  the  time 
their  fathers  had  dwelt  by  the  frozen  banks  of  the 
Northern  river. 

Past  the  sleeping  form  of  the  chief  he  went. 
Past  the  members  of  his  household,  stopping  and 
stooping  to  search  among  them  as  he  went.  Past 
them  all  to  where  Feather  Heart  lay. 

Her  head  was  pillowed  upon  her  arm;  her  soft 
and  slender  arm.  Her  black  hair  fell  across  it,  and 
across  her  throat ;  her  throat  like  the  leaf  of  a  wild 
rose,  new  blown.  Her  long  lashes  lay  along  her 
cheeks;  her  cheeks  with  a  glow  of  warmth  beneath 
the  dusk.  She  breathed  rapidly  for  one  who  slept! 
Perchance  she  dreamed! 

He  reached  toward  her.  He  set  the  light  close 
to  her  face.  Never  before  had  the  hand  of  the  Eagle 
trembled  in  deed  that  he  did. 

" Lovelight  hath  lighted  me  to  thy  side,"  he 
whispered.  "I  bring  you  the  flame  of  love  on  the 
end  of  a  torch,  daughter  of  a  chief.  Open  thy  lips 
and  breath  it  into  thy  heart!" 

She  opened  her  eyes.  The  Light  of  Love  was  dim 
beside  the  light  within  them.  She  rested  them  upon 
the  countenance  of  the  White  Eagle.  Slowly,  with 
glances  clinging  to  him,  she  closed  her  lids.  Her  lips 
parted.  She  breathed  upon  the  light.  It  flickered 
for  a  space,  leaped,  and  went  out. 

With  a  heart  that  bounded  within  him,  the  White 
Eagle  made  his  way  from  the  lodge  of  Feather 
Heart. 


CHAPTER  IV 
THE  MAN  WITH  HAIR  OF  BRONZE 

THE  chant  to  dawn  floated  weird  and  mystic 
across  the  flood  of  the  Father  of  Waters  from 
the  village  of  Saukenuk.  It  was  the  morning  of  the 
Crane  Dance;  the  morning  of  the  day  when  the 
young  men  and  the  maidens  wed  among  the  Sacs. 
With  the  first  pink  of  sunlight  the  lovers  were 
already  astir.  They  gathered  on  the  green  between 
the  lodges,  chanting  their  love  songs  soft  and  low 
to  their  beloved,  still  asleep  in  the  lodges  of  their 
fathers. 

Smoke  came  from  the  houses  of  the  village,  curl 
ing  faintly  blue  against  the  still  fainter  blue  of  the 
early  June  sky.  The  birds  awoke  in  the  trees;  the 
thrush  made  melody  upon  the  hill;  the  cat-bird, 
ceasing  her  mournful  plaint,  rejoiced  in  the  thicket. 
The  river  in  its  rocky  bed  made  them  accompani 
ment.  The  sun  rose  singing  over  the  northern  spur 
of  the  Watchtower.  The  day  of  the  Dance  of  the 
Crane  was  at  hand. 

Swiftly,  with  flute  in  hand,  the  young  braves 
sped  whither  their  hearts  leaped  before  them.  Each 
at  the  door  of  his  beloved  made  soft  music  on  his 
flute;  the  music  of  the  love  song  of  the  Sacs.  The 

48 


The  Man  With  Hair  of  Bronze          49 

mingled  strain  from  a  hundred  lodges  lifted  through 
the  soft  morning  air  into  the  blue  sky. 

Pretty  was  it  to  see  how  the  father  of  the  be 
loved,  a  grizzled  warrior,  came  forth  from  his  lodge 
with  a  show  of  seeing  who  it  was  that  made  music  at 
the  door,  and  why;  pretty  to  see  how  the  mother 
came  behind  him,  pressing  close  to  learn.  Pleasant 
was  it  to  hear  the  notes  of  the  love  song  turn  into 
discord  when  they  came  to  the  door;  pleasant  to 
hear  the  love  song  spring  again  from  the  flute  when 
the  mat  in  the  doorway  had  fallen  behind  their 
retreating  figures. 

Beautiful  was  it  to  behold  the  maiden,  coming  at 
last  to  the  door,  blushing  like  the  morning,  with  eyes 
that  dared  not  meet  her  lover's-;  with  hand  that 
reached  trembling  into  his  to  be  led  forth  from  her 
father's  lodge.  Beautiful  to  watch  them  hastening 
to  the  green  that  ran  between  the  houses,  hand  in 
hand,  close,  silent,  glowing. 

From  a  hundred  lodges  they  came  to  join  in  the 
dance.  In  the  whole  village  not  a  face  was  to  be  seen 
save  the  faces  of  the  lovers.  In  the  whole  village 
the  doors  of  the  lodges  were  closed.  Those  neither 
lovers  nor  beloved  might  not  fare  forth  this  morn. 
So  had  it  been  since  the  time  when  their  fathers' 
fathers  had  dwelt  along  the  frozen  river  of  the 
North,  before  the  Iroquois  drove  them  forth. 

The  White  Eagle,  in  a  dress  of  deerskin,  em 
broidered  with  quill  and  bead,  the  feathers  of  the 
eagle  in  his  hair,  stood  at  the  door  of  the  lodge  of 


50  A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

the  chieftain;  at  the  door  of  the  lodge  of  Feather 
Heart,  daughter  of  a  chief.  On  his  flute  he  played 
the  love  song,  or  sang  with  his  lips  to  his  beloved. 

"Daughter  of  morning,  thy  lover  awaits  thee; 
Child  of  a  chieftain,  come  forth  from  the  lodge ! 
Cheeks  like  the  wild  rose  that  blows  in  the  summer, 

Teeth  like  the  snowflake  and  throat  like  the  swan, 
Eyes  like  the  stars  in  the  stark  nights  of  winter, 

Hair  like  the  midnight  and  smile  like  the  dawn ! 
Come  !  For  thy  beauty  shall  conquer  the  morning ! 
Come !  'Tis  the  day  of  the  Dance  of  the  Crane ! 

"Daughter  of  morning,  thy  lover  awaits  thee ! 
Son  of  a  chieftain,  come  forth  to  his  lodge! 
Mighty  in  hunting  and  swift  in  the  war-path, 

Keen  is  his  hatchet  and  stalwart  his  bow; 
Flesh  of  the  deer  and  the  quail  will  he  bring  thee, 

Skin  of  the  young  of  the  beaver  and  doe. 
Come !     For  his  lodge  and  his  right  arm  will  shelter ! 
Come!     'Tis  the  day  of  the  Dance  of  the  Crane!" 

A  stirring  of  the  mat  that  hung  in  the  door  of 
her  father's  lodge,  and  it  was  lifted  aside!  With 
downcast  eyes,  all  alight  with  love;  with  lips  that 
trembled  into  a  smile,  like  the  new  leaves  of  the  rose 
when  the  breezes  of  June  kiss  them,  she  stood  before 
him.  Without  a  word,  they  passed  hand  in  hand  to 
the  green  in  the  center  of  the  village ;  to  the  Dance 
of  the  Crane,  with  no  eye  upon  them ;  for  that  was 
the  sacred  custom  of  the  Sacs  from  the  first  time 
whence  their  legends  sprung. 


The  Man  With  Hair  of  Bronze          51 

One  eye  there  was  that  saw  them;  the  glinting, 
bloodshot  eye  of  Half  Ear.  He  was  returning  to  the 
village  from  his  friends  the  whites,  drunken  and 
shattered.  He  stood  in  the  eastern  gate  as  they 
passed  through  the  village.  He  looked  upon  them 
with  evil  in  his  face  as  they  went  hand  in  hand. 
Without  entering  the  gate,  he  turned  and  went  back 
the  way  he  had  corne,  as  swiftly  as  he  could,  for  the 
liquor  gripped  his  legs. 

It  was  night  before  he  returned  again  to  the 
lodge  of  his  mother,  where  Light  Foot  sat  alone  in 
the  darkness,  repining  for  the  honor  that  had  passed 
over  the  head  of  her  beloved  son  to  rest  upon  him 
of  the  hollow  heart,  the  teller  of  lies.  The  White 
Eagle  had  gone  to  another  lodge  with  his  bride,  the 
daughter  of  a  chieftain. 

From  that  day  forth  Half  Ear  slunk  among  his 
people,  more  and  more  like  a  cur  that  was  whipped. 
He  went  no  more  among  the  whites,  but  clung  to  the 
door  of  his  mother's  lodge,  save  when  he  wandered 
through  the  village  behind  the  houses  to  the  gate 
that  led  to  the  river,  and  so  out  to  the  last  point 
of  land,  to  sit  between  the  two  rivers  with  gaze 
fixed  upon  the  sweeping  expanse  of  waters  swinging 
between  their  banks  below. 

It  was  mid-June.  The  women  had  gone  to  the 
planting,  hoeing  their  corn  in  the  fields  about  the 
village.  The  young  men  were  hunting  in  the  forests ; 
the  old  men  sat  about  on  the  grass  beneath  the  trees, 
smoking  their  pipes,  telling  of  deeds  that  had  been 


52  A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

done  in  the  days  that  were  past.  The  Eagle  had 
gone  forth  with  the  young  men  to  the  hunt.  Feather 
Heart  awaited  his  return  on  the  top  of  the  Watch- 
tower;  for  the  daughter  of  the  chief  went  not  into 
the  fields  to  hoe. 

Half  Ear,  sitting  on  the  last  point  of  land  with 
eyes  fixed  down  the  river,  arose  hastily  and  stole 
toward  the  village  with  averted  look,  like  one  who 
had  done  murder.  At  the  gate  he  paused  to  look 
behind  him.  A  thin  trace  of  yellow  smoke,  ascend 
ing  from  beyond  the  last  point  of  land  where  it 
could  be  seen,  arose  across  the  fair  blue  of  the  sky. 
Peering  cautiously  into  the  village  to  make  sure  he 
had  not  been  seen,  he  turned  from  the  gate  and  crept 
close  behind  the  palisade  of  brush  to  the  point  near 
est  the  trail  to  the  Tower.  From  thence  he  made 
haste  until  he  vanished  within  the  arch  of  foliage 
that  marked  the  foot  of  the  trail. 

Scarcely  had  he  disappeared  from  sight  before  a 
sound  came  over  the  swinging  current  of  the  Father 
of  Waters  that  was  a  sound  of  terror  to  the  ears  of 
those  in  the  village.  It  was  the  sound  of  something 
coughing  and  sputtering  through  the  water  beyond 
the  bend,  like  a  great  monster  that  swam,  choking  as 
it  swam.  The  breath  of  the  monster  lay  yellow  and 
thick  across  the  sky. 

Warriors  flocked  to  the  lodge  of  Black  Hawk, 
their  chief.  With  gun  and  spear  in  hand,  with 
hatchet  and  knife  in  belt,  with  horn  and  pouch  slung 
on  their  shoulders  they  came,  awaiting  his  command. 


The  Man  With  Hair  of  Bronze          53 

The  women,  working  in  the  fields,  arose  and  hurried 
into  the  village,  hearing  the  sound  and  seeing  the 
yellow  breath  across  the  sky ;  children  in  their  play 
hushed  and  drew  near  the  lodges  of  their  mothers. 
A  call  went  forth  to  the  young  men  who  had  gone  to 
the  hunting.  Dread  was  in  the  heart  of  all;  of  all 
save  the  Black  Hawk. 

With  his  warriors  pressing  about,  he  went  to  the 
gate  that  led  to  the  water,  with  eyes  fixed  upon  the 
whirling  expanse  of  river  below.  Something  huge 
and  black;  something  that  breathed  yellow  flames 
with  a  horrid  hissing  noise,  something  that  groaned 
and  moaned,  came  into  view  about  the  bend  in  the 
river.  A  low  cry  of  terror  went  up  from  the  lodges 
where  the  women-  cowered.  The  men  drew  nearer 
their  chief,  wide-eyed,  waiting. 

1 '  'Tis  the  smoke  canoe  of  the  whites, ' '  quoth  the 
Hawk.  * '  See !  It  bears  the  warriors  of  the  Great 
Father !  The  sun  flashes  from  their  guns.  They  go 
to  the  White  Beaver  in  his  fort  above. ' ' 

As  it  drew  nearer,  slowly  urging  through  the 
pressing  waters,  those  who  watched  could  see  the 
soldiers  crowding  about  the  rail  of  the  steamer. 
Their  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  shore,  where  the  braves 
of  the  Sacs  and  the  Foxes  stood  grouped.  The  sun 
sparkled  among  their  guns. 

Slowly  the  smoke  canoe  came  closer.  The  braves 
gathered  about  their  chief  looked  into  his  face  for 
sign  of  command,  with  their  hands  stiffening  about 
their  guns  and  their  spears.  The  steamer  drew 


54  A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

abreast  the  point,  laying  its  course  in  shore.  The 
hissing  and  the  groaning  ceased.  The  vessel  stopped. 
Black  Hawk  answered  the  nmrnmrings  of  his  braves 
with  a  look  of  stern  command. 

A  flag  of  truce  fluttered  from  the  gaff  of  the 
steamboat.  Black  Hawk  made  answer  with  a  sign 
of  peace.  The  water  about  the  craft  swarmed  with 
small  boats,  hastily  put  over.  They  were  filled  with 
soldiers.  They  came  to  the  point  of  land.  The  sol 
diers  debarked,  and  marched  toward  the  gate  where 
the  chief  stood  among  his  warriors.  "With  firm  eye 
he  bade  his  braves  withhold. 

At  the  head  marched  one  splendid  in  blue  coat 
with  yellow  buttons,  and  with  crusted  yellow  upon 
his  shoulders.  At  the  side  of  him  marched  Keokuk, 
a  chief  of  the  Sacs,  who,  for  the  sake  of  peace  to  his 
people,  had  led  them  across  the  Father  of  Waters  at 
the  word  of  the  Great  Father. 

"General  Gaines,  a  chief  of  the  Great  Father, 
has  come  to  the  Black  Hawk,  to  tell  him  that  the 
Great  Father  bids  him  depart  to  the  land  beyond  the 
Father  of  Waters,"  said  the  Indian,  in  the  Sauk 
tongue,  acting  as  interpreter;  for  the  Hawk  was 
ignorant  of  English.  "It  were  wise  for  the  Hawk 
to  obey  the  wish  of  the  Great  Father." 

Black  Hawk  listened,  a  look  of  scorn  on  his  sharp 
features.  When  the  other  was  done,  he  made  a  sign 
that  they  should  follow,  and  entered  his  lodge.  Keo 
kuk,  General  Gaines,  officers  who  were  with  him; 
braves  high  in  the  councils  of  the  Sacs,  made  solemn 


The  Man  With  Hair  of  Bronze          55 

and  silent  procession  behind  him.  Their  voices 
sounded  through  the  length  and  breadth  of  the 
village. 

The  soldiers,  left  without  the  building,  loitered 
about  the  village  whither  their  curiosity  and  courage 
led  them,  staring  at  the  Indians  and  poking  and  pry 
ing  into  the  lodges.  They  were  regulars  and  militia, 
hastily  gathered  on  a  sudden  alarm.  They  were  ill- 
equipped,  the  militia  were  undisciplined  and  inex 
perienced  ;  but  they  were  in  sufficient  force  to  enable 
their  commander  to  do  the  will  of  the  Great  Father 
with  the  Indians. 

Among  them  was  a  young  man  of  fair  skin  which 
the  winds  and  sun  could  not  darken.  His  eyes  were 
brown,  soft  and  warm ;  his  hair,  straying  across  his 
pale  brow,  was  the  color  of  bronze ;  his  lips  were  full, 
his  chin  firm,  his  jaws  well  set.  Silent,  watchful,  he 
looked  with  a  pity  in  his  eye  upon  the  women  and 
children  huddled  in  dumb  terror;  upon  the  groups 
of  warriors,  sullen  and  stolid. 

Near  him  was  a  short,  round  man  with  a  short, 
round  head  fitting  close  to  his  body ;  with  prominent 
blue  eyes  set  at  a  distance  apart  in  a  face  of  fiery 
red;  short,  round,  red  hands  on  short,  round  arms. 
He  passed  about  among  the  Indians  restlessly;  his 
glances  searched  their  faces  with  impatient  eager 
ness.  He  peered  into  the  distant  parts  of  the  village, 
cursing  with  disappointment  when  he  failed  to  see 
what  he  sought. 

As  he  looked,  there  came  a  low  cry  from  among 


56  A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

the  women  crouching  close  by.  One  of  them,  a 
comely  young  squaw  with  a  frank  face  and  gentle 
eye,  came  to  him.  In  her  arms  was  a  babe  of  less 
than  a  year.  The  skin  of  the  infant  was  dark,  but 
not  so  dark  as  the  skin  of  the  woman,  its  mother. 
She  held  it  forth  to  the  white  man.  Her  gentle  eyes 
appealed  wistfully  to  him.  She  spoke  to  him,  softly, 
in  the  Sauk  tongue.  The  man,  startled  to  see  her, 
answered  her  harshly  in  her  own  language.  It  was 
not  she  whom  he  sought ! 

She  spoke  again.  There  was  hungry  pleading  in 
her  tone.  The  man  replied  savagely,  in  a  burst  of 
anger.  He  raised  his  arm  to  strike  her. 

In  the  instant  that  he  did,  with  the  swift  grace 
of  a  panther,  he  of  the  bronze  hair  laid  hand  on  the 
upraised  arm. 

"Frake,  what  are  you  doing!"  he  said.  His 
voice  was  calm  and  contained. 

The  other  turned  upon  him. 

"I  don't  know  that  it  is  any  of  your  business!" 
he  growled. 

"We  can  discuss  that  afterward,  if  you  like," 
returned  the  one  of  the  brown  eyes  and  well  set 
jaws.  "For  the  present,  I'll  make  it  my  affair. 
Don't  strike  that  woman!" 

The  softness  went  out  of  the  brown  eyes  as  he 
said  it;  his  voice,  still  calm  and  contained,  was 
raised  a  shade.  The  one  whom  he  had  called  Frake 
glared  at  him,  his  blue  eyes  standing  farther  from 
his  head. 


The  Man  With  Hair  of  Bronze          57 

"Yes!  You're  the  feller  that's  been  preachin' 
all  the  way  about  givin'  the  Indian  his  rights!"  he 
sneered.  "You're  the  feller  that  tried  to  block  the 
expedition  in  the  first  place,  ain't  you?  You  seem 
to  care  a  pile  for  these  dirty  redskins,  you  do !  How 
long  have  you  been  protector  of  the  Indians ?  Hey?' ' 

A  knot  of  militia  had  gathered  about  the  center 
of  disturbance;  for  the  querulous  voice  of  Frake 
sounded  through  the  village. 

"Yes;  you're  right,"  returned  the  other,  answer 
ing  the  asseverations  of  Frake.  "I  am  sorry  for  the 
Indians.  I  am  sorry  we  came  here.  But  that  has 
nothing  to  do  with  her."  He  inclined  his  head  to 
where  the  squaw  stood,  shrinking  and  apprehensive. 
She  seemed  to  fear  lest  harm  should  come  to  the 
white  man  who  would  have  struck  her — which  is  the 
way  of  woman  the  world  over.  "She  was  a  woman 
before  she  was  an  Indian!" 

Frake 's  face  curled  into  a  low  leer.  He  looked 
about  at  the  soldiers  who  had  gathered,  winking  at 
them. 

"Oh,  that's  it,  is  it?"  he  sneered,  with  obvious 
significance,  and  walked  away,  leaving  the  soldiers 
chuckling  and  grinning  at  his  repartee. 

The  other  paid  no  heed  to  the  implied  insult, 
beyond  a  contemptuous  glance  at  the  snickering 
yokels  surrounding  him.  His  attention  was  fixed  on 
the  man  who  had  sought  to  quarrel  with  him.  He 
watched  him  closely,  with  shrewd  eye.  Watching 
him,  he  saw  him  stop  abruptly  in  the  search  he  was 


58  A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

surreptitiously  making  among  the  Indians,  and 
fasten  his  gaze  upon  the  eastern  gate  of  the  village. 
Standing  in  the  gate  he  saw  an  Indian;  a  sinister, 
forbidding  Indian,  with  thin,  sharp,  crooked  face; 
with  eyes  close  together,  which  seemed  to  look  at 
divergent  objects ;  with  little  ears,  of  which  one  was 
half  cut  away. 

He  saw  Frake  hasten  toward  this  Indian  stand 
ing  in  the  gate,  stealing  behind  intervening  houses 
to  make  his  progress  as  inconspicuous  as  possible. 
He  saw  him  come  to  the  side  of  the  Indian  and  speak 
with  him;  their  heads  close  together,  their  eyes 
avoiding  each  other's  face.  Watching  still,  he  saw 
them  pass  from  the  gate  across  an  intervening  open 
space  toward  a  high  hill  to  the  eastward.  In  the 
foliage  at  the  base  of  the  hill  was  an  archway  of 
limbs  and  leaves.  Beneath  it  was  the  trail.  The 
man,  watching,  saw  them  disappear  in  the  trail 
through  the  archway. 

As  he  was  about  to  withdraw  his  gaze,  wonder 
ing  whether  it  might  not  be  best  to  follow,  he  saw 
another  figure  creep  swiftly  across  the  open  space 
toward  the  hill,  and  disappear  within  the  archway; 
the  figure  of  the  woman  with  the  babe.  Perplexed, 
he  was  consulting  with  himself  to  determine  what 
he  ought  to  do,  when  a  man  at  his  elbow  spoke 
to  him. 

"Who's  your  friend?"  asked  the  man.  He 
turned.  It  was  William  Hall,  one  of  the  militia  men. 
His  face  was  twisted  into  a  facetious  grin. 


The  Man  With  Hair  of  Bronze          59 

"That  is  Isaac  Frake,  Hall,"  returned  the  one 
addressed,  still  revolving  in  his  mind  the  problem 
that  had  presented  itself.  "I  thought  you  knew  him. 
I  have  seen  you  talking  with  him.  He  is  a  settler 
hereabouts.  It  was  he  who  brought  in  the  alarm  and 
prevailed  upon  General  Gaines  to  come  here. ' ' 

"Oh,  I  don't  mean  him!"  chortled  the  militia 
man.  *  *  I  mean  your  friend,  the  squaw ! ' ' 

The  man  with  the  bronze  hair  ignored  him.  "Wil 
liam  Hall,  not  used  to  finesse  in  his  communica 
tions  with  his  fellows,  mistook  the  dignified  rebuke 
for  an  indication  of  embarrassment  and  a  confused 
conscience. 

*  *  You  seem  to  be  mighty  fond  of  the  Indians  I ' ' 
he  ventured,  slyly  grinning  behind  his  hand. 

*  *  I  am  sorry  for  them, ' '  returned  the  other,  pre 
occupied. 

"Yes ;  especially  for  the  women!" 

The  man  of  the  bronze  hair,  thinking  of  what  he 
had  seen,  made  no  response.  Hall,  chuckling  com 
placently  over  his  supposed  success,  essayed  again. 

"Seen  a  good  deal  of  'em,  hain't  yer!"  he  asked. 

"Enough  to  have  charity  for  them."  He  paid 
little  heed  to  the  bumpkin ;  he  was  not  aware  of  the 
point  of  the  other's  badgering. 

"  'Specially  for  the  women?"  Hall  was  making 
the  most  of  it. 

There  was  no  response. 

"Been  here  long?"  went  on  Hall,  with  an  elabo- 


60  A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

rate  project  of  bringing  the  other  to  ultimate  con 
fusion. 

"I  have  been  connected  with  the  Indian  agency 
headquarters  at  Jefferson  Barracks  for  some 
months,  Hall, ' '  returned  his  unconscious  victim. 

What  barbed  point  William  Hall  sought  to  im 
pale  the  man  upon,  and  what  his  success  would  have 
been,  can  never  be  determined,  for  before  he  could 
frame  the  next  question  in  the  projected  series  the 
object  of  his  pungent  designs  departed  from  his  side 
with  startling  abruptness,  and  was  speeding  toward 
the  arched  trail,  where  he  presently  disappeared. 

The  man  of  the  bronze  hair  had  made  up  his 
mind.  Whatever  lay  behind  the  journey  of  Frake  to 
the  hill,  no  harm  could  come  from  his  following,  and 
he  might  do  much  in  the  way  of  good.  He  grew 
anxious  at  the  thought  of  what  might  befall  the 
Indian  if  she  encountered  the  brute  along  in  the  hill ; 
with  the  army  behind  him  he  would  hesitate  at  little. 
He  was  convinced  that  the  woman  had  gone  to  seek 
out  the  man. 

Thinking  these  things,  he  hurried  up  the  trail. 
Hastening,  he  heard  someone  coming  swiftly  toward 
him  with  soft  step.  He  turned  a  corner  of  the  hill. 
In  the  trail  before  him  was  the  Indian  woman.  Her 
face  was  eager  and  apprehensive.  At  sight  of  the 
man,  she  gave  a  little  cry  of  relief. 

"Raven  Hair  came  to  seek  you,"  she  said,  in 
broken  English.  "The  pale  face  is  the  friend  of 
Eaven  Hair.  Will  he  come?  There  is  need  for  him. 


The  Man  With  Hair  of  Bronze          61 

The  heart  of  the  woman  who  loves  is  wise;  she 
knows  there  is  need  for  him!" 

Impressed  by  the  earnestness  of  the  woman's 
manner  and  already  wrought  upon  by  his  own 
thoughts,  the  man  bade  her  proceed.  She  made  no 
delay.  Turning  in  the  trail,  she  hastened  upward. 
He  followed,  impatient  of  its  windings,  striving  to 
peer  through  the  foliage  to  penetrate  the  future. 

In  their  ascent  they  approached  a  level  place  on 
a  shoulder  of  the  hill  where  the  thicket  receded  from 
the  trail,  leaving  an  opening  between  the  oaks.  As 
they  came  close  to  it  the  woman,  making  a  sign  for 
silence,  went  forward  and  peered  through  the  edge 
of  the  thicket  along  the  trail.  Making  another  sign, 
she  glided  into  the  open  space. 

In  the  center  of  it,  sitting  on  the  ground,  leaning 
against  a  tree,  was  an  Indian ;  a  pitiful,  craven  sav 
age.  In  his  lap  was  a  bottle.  The  Indian  was  croon 
ing  to  the  bottle  drunkenly.  Half  of  his  right  ear 
was  gone.  It  was  the  Indian  whom  the  white  man 
had  seen  go  with  Frake.  Eaven  Hair,  the  squaw 
with  the  papoose,  came  behind  him  like  a  shadow 
and  placed  a  hand  upon  his  drooping  shoulder. 

"Half  Ear  will  stay  with  Eaven  Hair,"  she  said, 
as  he  struggled  to  rise  to  his  feet,  surprised  and 
confounded.  "The  pale  face  would  walk  upon  the 
hill." 

She  directed  the  white  man  with  a  nod  to  the 
point  where  the  trail  left  the  opening.  Making  sure 
that  the  woman  would  be  able  to  detain  the  wretched 


62  A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

savage  by  sheer  moral  strength,  he  hastened  up 
the  trail. 

He  was  not  long  in  coming  to  where  the  crest  of 
the  hill  broke  rough  against  the  sky.  As  he  came 
near  the  top,  he  heard  voices;  a  man's  voice,  harsh 
and  angry,  and  another,  that  of  a  woman,  clear  as  a 
bugle,  defiant,  thrilling.  The  one  he  recognized  as 
that  of  Frake.  The  other  he  had  never  heard. 

The  sound  of  them  sent  him  running  up  the  trail, 
which  was  now  more  gradual.  The  thicket  opened 
again,  at  the  very  summit.  In  the  center  of  the 
space,  his  back  toward  him,  was  Frake.  Confront 
ing  him,  with  flashing  eye  and  quivering  nostril; 
slight,  beautiful,  sinuous,  bristling;  a  panther  at 
bay;  an  incensed  goddess  of  the  woods,  was  an 
Indian  maiden  of  a  loveliness  which  he  had  never 
before  seen  in  maiden — save  only  once. 

They  spoke  in  the  Sauk  tongue.  He  could  not 
understand.  From  their  tone  and  their  manner  he 
knew  that  the  man  threatened;  that  the  maiden 
defied  him.  He  kept  closer,  looking  the  while  to  the 
knife  in  his  belt.  The  Indian  saw  him.  She  under 
stood,  and  made  no  sign.  The  voice  of  the  man  rose 
louder.  The  eyes  of  the  maiden  were  pits  of  fire. 

"Curse  your  pretty  hide,  Feather  Heart!"  cried 
the  man,  in  English,  which  she  could  not  understand. 
"If  you  won't  come  one  way  you  will  another!" 

He  had  lost  all  restraint.  His  voice  was  a  hoarse 
roar.  He  grasped  the  girl  by  the  waist.  He  placed 


The  Man  With  Hair  of  Bronze          63 

one  thick  hand  over  her  mouth  to  prevent  an  outcry. 
She  struggled  to  no  purpose. 

The  man  with  hair  of  bronze  leaped  upon  the 
broad  back  of  the  other.  With  one  motion  he  tore 
the  hand  of  Frake  from  the  waist  of  the  maiden; 
with  another  he  flung  him  to  the  ground;  with 
another  was  upon  him,  pinioning  him,  face  in  the 
dust. 

" Frake,'*  he  said,  deliberately,  "in  Virginia, 
where  I  came  from,  they  would  hang  a  man  for  this. 
Things  seem  to  be  different  out  this  way. ' ' 

The  man  on  the  ground,  wriggling  and  cursing, 
tried  to  release  himself. 

"Now,  don't  squirm,  Frake;  I  don't  want  to  be 
severe  with  you,"  counseled  the  one  who  held  him. 
At  the  words  he  pressed  the  point  of  his  knife  per 
suasively  against  the  red  neck  of  the  man.  Cursing 
still  and  muttering  threats,  Frake  subsided,  and  was 
permitted  to  arise. 

Gaming  his  feet,  he  looked  toward  the  Indian 
girl,  abashed  and  discomfited.  Glancing  at  her, 
the  prominent  eyes  swelled  in  his  head,  his  face 
blanched,  his  jaw  dropped  into  its  creases  of  fat,  his 
knees  shook.  He  groaned  as  though  he  saw  a  ghost. 
The  other,  whose  eyes  had  not  left  him  for  fear  of 
treachery,  glanced  to  see  what  was  the  cause  of 
his  terror. 

Standing  at  the  side  of  the  girl,  his  arm  about 
her,  was  a  young  Indian  brave,  tall,  lithe,  alert, 
enraged,  physically  beautiful.  His  eyes  were 


64  A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

alternately  upon  one  pale  face  and  the  other.  The 
Indian  girl,  clinging  to  him,  whispered  in  his  ear. 
In  an  instant  the  Indian  leaped  upon  Frake  with  a 
yell  of  rage.  One  hand  gripped  the  great  red  throat. 
The  other  brandished  a  knife. 

Before  he  could  strike,  he  of  the  bronze  hair  was 
between  them.  One  hand  he  raised  high  in  the  air, 
fingers  extended,  palm  forward,  making  a  sign  of 
peace.  With  the  other  he  grasped  the  brawny  wrist 
of  the  savage  with  a  grip  that  partially  loosened  his 
hold  upon  the  knife.  Fixing  the  Indian  with  earnest 
eyes,  he  shook  his  head.  Frake,  abandoning  himself 
to  fate  and  fear,  made  no  sound  or  sign. 

The  Indian,  with  flashing  eye  and  dilating  nostril, 
gazed  savagely  at  the  one  who  interfered.  The 
brown  eyes  of  the  white  man,  calm,  intense,  com 
manding,  returned  the  look.  The  slight  hand  of 
Feather  Heart,  stealing  along  the  naked  arm  of  the 
warrior  to  the  hand  that  held  the  knife,  restrained 
him.  Without  relinquishing  his  hold  upon  the  neck 
of  Frake,  he  lowered  his  hand  and  sheathed  his 
knife. 

The  white,  by  signs,  led  him  to  the  hill  over 
looking  the  town  of  Saukenuk,  still  holding  Frake  by 
the  throat,  and  showed  him  the  soldiers  there.  Look 
ing  at  Frake  and  shaking  his  head  once  more  with 
the  gesture  and  expression  of  one  who  gives  advice, 
he  left  the  three  at  the  top  of  the  hill.  It  was  no 
longer  his  affair.  The  hand  of  the  Indian  was  still 
upon  the  throat  of  the  pale  face. 


The  Man  With  Hair  of  Bronze          65 

William  Hall,  idling  among  the  Indians  in  the 
village  of  Saukenuk  while  the  chiefs  of  the  whites 
and  the  Sacs  held  council,  in  the  course  of  time  saw 
two  figures  emerge  from  the  arch  of  foliage  that 
marked  the  trail  to  the  high  hill  on  the  eastern  side 
of  the  village.  One  of  them  was  the  Indian  woman 
with  the  baby  whose  skin  was  paler  than  the  skin  of 
its  mother.  The  other  was  the  man  from  Virginia. 
Seeing  them,  and  being  a  man  of  circumscribed  dis 
cernment,  William  Hall  turned  on  his  heel  with  a 
sagacious  chuckle  and  continued  to  idle  among  the 
Indians  while  the  council  went  forward. 

On  the  morning  of  the  next  day  Black  Hawk  took 
his  people  with  him  and  departed  in  many  canoes 
across  the  waters  of  the  Father  of  Waters.  On  the 
evening  of  the  next  day  the  sun,  sinking  red  into  the 
west,  looked  aslant  upon  red,  smouldering  heaps  of 
ruins  where  had  stood  the  city  of  the  Sacs ;  the  grey 
moon,  arising,  looked  down  upon  grey  ashes  over 
which  smoke  ghosts  flitted  mournfully  through  the 
deserted  night. 

The  Great  Father  had  had  his  will  with  the 
Indian ! 


CHAPTER  V 
THE  FRONTIER  CLERK 

DENTON  OFFUTT  was  as  good  as  his  word. 
He  set  up  a  store  in  New  Salem,  as  he  said  he 
would  on  the  morning  when  his  tall  and  angular 
boatman  worked  his  flat-boat  over  Cameron's  dam, 
and  placed  the  same  tall  and  angular  boatman  in  the 
store  as  clerk. 

It  was  not  long  until  Abraham  Lincoln  was  one 
of  the  community.  It  was  not  long  until  he  was 
much  more  than  the  least  one  of  the  little  'settlement 
whither  he  had  drifted.  Genial,  mild,  even  tem 
pered,  huge  of  hand  and  great  of  heart,  with  a  brain 
that  had  as  many  droll  angles  as  his  frame  and  fea 
tures,  he  grew  apace  into  the  affections  and  esteem 
of  the  good  people  of  New  Salem. 

They  were  glad  when  he  was  with  them.  They 
liked  to  go  to  Offutt's  store  to  hear  him  discuss  the 
events  of  the  day  with  the  wiseacres  of  the  town. 
They  enjoyed  his  pungent  comments.  They  appre 
ciated  his  hard  sense.  They  delighted  in  his  whim 
sical  humor.  They  rehearsed  and  repeated  the 
stories  he  told  from  behind  the  counter  or  over  the 
supper  table  at  Eutledge's  Inn,  where  he  boarded, 
until  his  fame  had  gone  abroad  through  the  country. 

If  Abe  Lincoln  knew  the  popularity  that  was 

66 


The  Frontier  Clerk  67 

come  upon  him,  he  gave  no  indication  of  it.  Modest, 
pleasant  to  all,  he  held  his  head  straight  and  his 
heart  clear  through  the  little  attentions  frankly  and 
ingenuously  thrust  upon  him  by  his  new  friends.  All 
who  came  shared  in  his  sentiment  toward  his  fel 
lows,  which  was  large  and  comprehensive.  Always 
was  he  kind  and  generous,  without  favor  or  preju 
dice.  And  always  there  was  about  him  the  intangi 
ble,  elusive  sadness  which  had  baffled  them  when 
they  had  seen  him  that  first  morning  in  the  boat  on 
Cameron's  dam. 

It  was  a  day  in  July.  The  little  village  on  the 
top  of  the  hill  by  the  river  lay  asleep  in  the  noon 
sun.  Not  a  stir  of  life  was  abroad  in  the  heat.  All 
was  hushed,  save  the  plashing  of  the  stream  where 
it  trickled  over  Cameron's  dam,  having  shrunk  from 
the  torrent  of  April.  Offutt's  store  was  deserted  of 
all  excepting  Abe  Lincoln,  who  sat  on  the  counter, 
legs  dangling  like  strings,  reading  a  book.  Presently 
he  closed  it  with  a  bang  and  put  it  upon  the  shelf. 
Exclaiming  against  the  heat  and  mopping  his  brow, 
he  went  to  the  door  of  the  tavern  in  search  of  a 
breath  of  air. 

A  man  on  horseback  was  in  front  of  the  store. 
The  horse  was  drinking  at  the  trough.  The  long 
clerk  glanced  at  the  man  and  the  horse  casually. 
The  animal  was  a  beautiful  roan  creature,  fine  of 
limb,  deep  of  chest,  with  classic  head  and  neck ;  such 
a  horse  as  he  had  seen  but  once.  He  looked  at  the 
rider  more  attentively.  The  man  raised  his  head 


68  A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

from  watching  his  animal  drink,  and  looked  full 
upon  the  clerk.  It  was  he  who  had  brought  the 
auger  to  the  stranded  boat  on  Cameron's  dam. 

"Why,  howdy,  stranger,"  said  Lincoln,  cor 
dially.  "Traveling!" 

"Hello,  mariner,"  returned  the  other,  recogniz 
ing  the  angular  clerk  at  once.  "Ashore  at  last,  are 
you?" 

There  was  a  good-natured  raillery  in  the  tone, 
which  Lincoln  caught  at  once. 

"Now,  see  here,  stranger,"  he  returned,  with 
mock  severity,  "I  can't  allow  any  allusions  to  my 
seamanship.  It  wasn't  my  fault  in  the  least  that 
we  got  aground  on  that  dam.  The  trouble  was  with 
the  dam.  It  stuck  too  far  up  into  the  water." 

The  man  on  the  horse,  laughing,  inquired  if  he 
could  bait  his  animal  there;  "Powhatan,"  he  called 
him.  He  was  told  that  he  could.  He  dismounted, 
led  the  horse  into  the  shade  of  a  tree,  removed  the 
saddle,  rubbed  the  wet  back,  felt  of  its  withers  to 
make  sure  it  was  not  too  warm  to  be  fed,  gave  it 
grain,  and  passed  into  the  store.  Lincoln,  watch 
ing  his  care  of  the  animal  with  an  approving  eye, 
passed  in  behind  him. 

"I  am  going  to  eat  some  bread  and  cheese 
myself,  if  you  can  furnish  me  with  it,"  said  the 
young  man. 

The  clerk  could,  and  did,  and  the  man  sat  down 
to  eat  by  the  door,  where  any  breath  of  air  that 
was  stirring  might  be  expected  to  reach  him. 


The  Frontier  Clerk  69 

"What  news,  stranger?"  inquired  the  elongated 
clerk,  at  length,  contemplating  him  as  he  ate  the 
cheese  and  bread. 

"My  name  is  Mortimer  Randolph, "  suggested 
the  stranger,  with  unaffected  courtesy.  Lincoln 
made  himself  known,  and  they  nodded  on  the  new 
basis. 

"I  suppose  you  have  heard  accounts  of  the 
expulsion  of  Black  Hawk  from  his  village  on  the 
Rock  River?"  ventured  the  traveler. 

"Some,"  assented  the  clerk,  laconically. 

"I  have  recently  come  from  Jefferson  Bar 
racks,"  continued  Randolph.  "I  was  informed 
there  that  the  squatters,  for  whose  benefit  the  Indi 
ans  were  expelled,  were  able  to  buy  only  one  sec 
tion  of  land  between  them  when  it  was  put  on  sale." 

Lincoln,  in  sudden  agitation,  came  close  to  the 
stranger. 

"I  don't  know  how  you  feel  about  it,"  he  said, 
with  some  emotion,  "but  I  think  they  used  the  old 
man  badly.  The  time  will  come  when  Illinois  will 
be  ashamed  of  her  dealings  with  Black  Hawk!" 

"The  time  cannot  come  too  soon  for  the  fair 
name  of  your  State,"  observed  the  other,  in  reply. 

Lincoln,  still  wrought  up,  paced  the  puncheon 
floor  of  the  store,  among  the  barrels  and  boxes. 
As  he  walked  his  feet  struck  flat  and  firm,  heel  and 
toe  at  the  same  time. 

"The  oppression  of  a  weak  people  by  a  strong 
is  a  thing  abhorrent  to  my  soul,"  he  went  on,  half 


70  A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

forgetting  the  presence  of  the  stranger  in  an  obses 
sion  of  feeling.  "I  was  in  New  Orleans  this  spring. 
I  saw  negroes  in  chains  there,  beaten  and  scourged. 
I  saw  a  girl  sold  on  the  block.  The  bidders  pinched 
her  flesh  between  their  fingers ;  the  auctioneer  made 
her  run  up  and  down  the  room  before  the  men  who 
were  buying  her!  By  God!" — he  raised  his  face 
upward ;  he  lifted  his  clenched  fist  above  him ;  it  was 
more  a  prayer  than  a  curse — "by  God!  If  ever  I 
get  a  chance  to  hit  that  thing,  I  '11  hit  it  hard ! ' ' 

The  man  who  was  eating  looked  fixedly  upon 
him.  Over  Lincoln's  homely,  grotesque  features, 
into  the  eyes  of  sadness  had  come  a  radiance  that 
was  sublime,  that  made  him  beautiful.  For  a  space 
he  continued  to  pace  the  floor.  Presently  he  con 
fronted  the  traveler.  He  smiled  consciously  down 
at  him. 

" Perhaps  you  don't  agree  with  me?"  he  sub 
mitted. 

The  other  arose  from  his  seat.  He  looked  fully 
into  the  face  of  the  towering  pioneer  for  a  moment 
in  silence. 

"I  am  from  Virginia,"  he  said  at  last.  "My 
father  owned  slaves."  He  paused.  "That  is  why 
I  came  here,"  he  added.  With  that  he  passed  from 
the  room,  to  attend  to  his  horse. 

As  he  left,  some  one  stood  aside  in  the  doorway 
to  let  him  by.  Absorbed,  he  only  saw  that  it  was 
a  woman.  Without  heeding  who  it  was,  he  raised 
his  hat  and  made  way,  craving  her  pardon  with  a 


The  Frontier  Clerk  71 

display  of  manners  rare  in  those  parts.  The 
woman  murmured  acknowledgment  as  he  was  mov 
ing  away.  The  sound  of  the  voice — soft,  rich,  melo 
dious — arrested  him.  He  turned  in  some  surprise 
to  hear  such  a  one  there.  Turning,  his  eyes  looked 
into  the  eyes  of  blue  that  he  had  seen  on  the  morn 
ing  in  April  when  he  had  come  that  way;  the  eyes 
that  had  followed  him  over  the  hill  as  he  rode 
away;  the  eyes  that  had  looked  at  him  out  of  his 
dreams  since  that  morning  in  spring,  that  had 
peeped  at  him  through  the  clouds  in  the  sky.  As 
he  gazed  she  passed  into  the  store. 

A  group  of  young  men  stood  about  his  horse  as 
he  approached  it,  his  mind  awhirl  with  what  he  had 
seen.  They  were  teasing  the  animal;  poking  it  in 
the  ribs,  tweaking  its  tail,  pulling  its  ears;  seeking 
in  a  variety  of  ways  to  arouse  it  to  a  demonstra 
tion  of  temper.  As  Eandolph  came  among  them, 
Powhatan,  whinnying  softly,  rubbed  his  nose  against 
his  master's  sleeve.  It  brought  him  to  his  first 
realization  of  the  presence  of  the  others. 

11  Howdy,  stranger!" 

One  of  the  men,  apparently  the  leader  of  them, 
a  big,  rough,  burly  man,  saluted  him.  "Fine  ani 
mal  you  've  got  there;  is  his  tail  on  good  and 
tight  ? "  he  added,  giving  the  horse 's  tail  a  vigorous 
pull. 

The  crowd  of  young  fellows  roared  at  the  wit 
of  their  leader.  The  man  with  hair  of  bronze  made 
no  sign  of  anger. 


72  A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

"I  '11  have  to  ask  you  not  to  abuse  the  horse," 
he  said  to  the  bully,  in  even  tone. 

"You  '11  have  to  do  more  than  ask  me,  I  reckon, 
stranger,"  retorted  the  man,  in  a  tone  of  rough 
insult,  and  an  accompanying  epithet. 

"Very  well,"  rejoined  the  other,  peacefully. 

A  white  fist  flashed  across  the  astonished  vision 
of  the  spectators.  A  dull  sound  of  flesh  on  flesh 
came  to  their  ears.  Their  leader,  with  a  grunt, 
sank  to  the  ground.  He  gained  his  feet  before  he 
was  entirely  prostrate,  with  a  mighty  oath.  Another 
fist  whipped  through  the  air.  The  man  fell  heavily 
between  the  feet  of  the  horse.  The  animal,  nicker 
ing  nervously,  laid  its  velvet  nose  on  his  master's 
shoulders. 

The  man,  extricating  himself,  arose  once  more. 
His  comrades,  cursing  and  shouting,  rushed  upon 
the  Virginian,  where  he  stood  with  his  back  toward 
his  steed.  One,  two,  three,  they  fell  before  his  fists. 
But  they  were  too  many.  By  force  of  numbers,  they 
came  inside  the  range  of  his  blows.  They  grappled 
him.  Their  hands  clung  to  his  arms ;  their  fists  beat 
him  upon  his  face  and  body.  Without  a  sound  he 
fought  back  as  best  he  could  against  the  hopeless 
odds. 

A  low,  anxious  cry  from  the  door  of  the  store, 
the  cry  of  a  woman,  reached  his  ears.  Making  shift 
to  look  through  a  shower  of  blows,  where  he  was 
the  center  of  a  swirling  mass  of  men,  Randolph 
saw  her  in  the  doorway;  saw  the  look  of  distress, 


The  Frontier  Clerk  73 

of  anxiety,  in  the  eyes,  heard  the  cry  again  from 
the  parted  lips.  With  a  burst  of  strength  and 
agility  he  wrenched  from  their  grasps,  obstructed 
as  they  were  in  their  fighting  by  the  very  numbers 
that  gave  them  advantage.  Before  they  had  time 
to  renew  the  onslaught  Abe  Lincoln  was  among 
them,  his  sweeping  arms  flinging  them  back,  his 
voice  raised  bidding  them  hold  off. 

"Never  mind  these  boys,"  he  said,  between 
times,  to  their  victim.  "They  are  only  the  Clary 
Grove  boys.  They  are  not  bad  fellows,  stranger. 
It's  just  their  notion  of  fun.  Now,  boys,"  he  con 
tinued,  addressing  the  others,  "what  's  up?  What 
has  this  stranger  done,  that  you  all  had  to  pitch 
into  him  like  this ! ' ' 

"He  punched  me  in  the  face!"  bellowed  the 
leader,  using  the  vile  epithet  again. 

"What  did  he  do  that  for!"  asked  Lincoln,  in 
the  interests  of  peace. 

The  other  did  not  offer  any  explanation. 

"Did  you  call  him  what  you  called  him  just 
now?"  pursued  Lincoln. 

The  member  of  the  gang  acknowledged  that  he 
had. 

* '  Now,  see  here,  Jack  Armstrong, ' '  Lincoln  went 
on,  taking  him  by  the  lapels  of  his  coat  good- 
naturedly,  "if  you  were  a  stranger  in  a  place  and 
somebody  called  you  that,  what  would  you  do?" 

"Lick  him,  by  God!"  thundered  Jack  Arm 
strong. 


74  A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

"Of  course  you  would,"  rejoined  Lincoln;  "and 
you  ought  to.  That  's  just  what  he  was  going  to 
do  when  you  all  pitched  onto  him.  Now  let  up. 
You  Ve  had  your  fun,  and  the  stranger  has  had  his. 
It 's  time  to  quit ! '  ' 

Jack  Armstrong,  crestfallen,  muttered  some 
thing  under  his  breath,  but  did  not  see  how  he  could 
escape  from  the  logic  of  the  tall  and  angular  clerk. 
The  rest  of  the  gang,  growling  and  cursing,  exhib 
ited  a  lively  desire  to  renew  the  battle. 

"If  these  gentlemen  can  restrain  their  impa 
tience  and  present  themselves  one  at  a  time,  your 
interposition  may  not  be  necessary,"  observed 
Mortimer,  seeing  the  frame  of  mind  in  which  the 
rowdies  were. 

"I  am  sorry  to  say,  Mr.  Kandolph,  that  these 
boys  are  not  in  the  habit  of  fighting  that  way," 
said  Lincoln,  frankly  and  without  hesitation.  ' '  Now, 
see  here,  boys,"  he  went  on,  turning  to  them, 
"you  Ve  no  call  to  make  any  more  disturbance  with 
this  stranger." 

He  proceeded  to  coax  and  wheedle  them  into  a 
disposition  toward  peace,  with  many  flashes  of 
humor  and  fragments  of  quaint  logic.  He  had  suc 
ceeded  in  restoring  a  fair  degree  of  stability  to 
their  equilibrium,  and  the  outlook  was  pacific,  when 
Denton  Offutt  bustled  up  busily,  with  mincing 
steps. 

"What  's  the  matter?  What  's  the  matter? 
What's  the  matter?  What's  the  matter?"  he 


The  Frontier  Clerk  75 

piped,  firing  off  a  question  with  each  step  as  he 
came. 

It  did  not  take  long  to  make  it  clear  to  Denton 
Offutt  what  was  the  matter. 

"Abe!  Abe!  Abe!  Abe!  Lick  'em.  Lick 
'em!"  cried  Offutt,  in  explosive  excitement.  "It 's 
time  this  tomfoolery  was  stopped!  Boys!"  He 
shook  his  thin,  little  fists  beneath  the  nose  of  the 
biggest  one  of  them  all.  "Boys!  There  isn7't  a 
man  of  you  can  wrastle  Abe  Lincoln,  my  clerk. 
He  's  the  best  wrastler  in  all  Illinois,  and  he  knows 
more  than  any  man  in  the  United  States ! ' ' 

"I  notice  nobody  never  does  nothin'  but  talk 
about  it,"  grunted  the  one  who  had  started  the 
trouble. 

Denton  Offutt  turned  upon  him  like  a  hen  with 
a  brood. 

"You!  You!  You!  You!  Jack  Armstrong!" 
he  cried,  in  shrill  tremolo.  "Why,  he  could  wring 
your  neck  for  you!" 

It  had  gone  past  the  peacemaker.  There  was 
no  retreat  left  to  honor.  Armstrong  was  already 
preparing  for  the  encounter,  stripping  his  coat, 
rolling  his  sleeves,  drawing  in  his  leather  belt, 
vociferating  taunts  and  threats  the  while. 

"I  don't  like  these  woolings  and  pullings," 
observed  Abe  Lincoln,  making  ready,  "but  I  sup 
pose  I  must  make  the  most  of  it." 

The  gang  from  Clary's  Grove  withdrew  a  step, 
leaving  a  space  for  the  wrestlers.  The  man  from 


76  A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

Virginia,  leading  his  horse  to  another  tree,  joined 
Offutt  at  the  door  of  the  store.  The  young  woman 
stood  within.  Eandolph  saw  her  there,  pale  and 
intense. 

"You  will  pardon  me,  madam,"  he  said.  "Shall 
I  ask  these  men  to  wait  until  you  can  withdraw?" 

"No,"  replied  the  girl,  with  forced  composure; 
"if  men  must  fight,  the  least  women  can  do  is  to 
stand  by  them." 

Before  there  was  time  for  other  words  a  roar 
went  up  from  the  circle  of  Clary's  Grove  boys,  and 
the  two  were  at  each  other.  It  was  soon  apparent 
that  Lincoln  tried  to  do  no  more  than  prevent  the 
other  from  throwing  him.  He  broke  hold  after 
hold,  now  eluding  Armstrong,  now  standing  stiff 
and  immovable  before  him,  without  making  any 
effort  to  throw  him. 

For  a  long  space  they  struggled.  The  man  from 
Clary's  Grove  could  do  nothing.  His  comrades, 
seeing  him  fail,  began  to  mutter.  Armstrong, 
incensed,  lost  all  restraint,  and  fell  upon  his  antago 
nist  with  blows  and  kicks,  wholly  unfair  in  the 
sport. 

In  the  instant  that  he  did  so,  a  wild  light  came 
into  the  blue  eyes  of  Lincoln.  His  huge  hands 
reached  forth.  They  closed  about  the  thick  neck 
of  the  other.  The  long  arms  stiffened.  They  lifted 
Armstrong  from  the  ground  till  his  feet  swung 
struggling  through  the  air.  They  shook  him  till  the 
breath  rattled  out  of  him.  They  flung  him  down 


Lincoln  shook  him  till  the  breath  rattled  out  of  him. 


The  Frontier  Clerk  77 

upon  the  ground,  purple  and  gasping.  In  the  soul 
of  Lincoln  there  was  no  charity  for  what  was 
unfair. 

The  boys  from  Clary's  Grove,  cursing  and 
threatening,  crowded  about  Lincoln,  ready  to  leap 
upon  him.  Randolph  hurried  to  his  side.  Denton 
Offutt,  sputtering,  scurried  into  his  store  and  laid 
hold  of  the  arm  of  Sylvia  Hall  in  impotent  alarm. 
She,  with  heaving  chest  and  kindled  eye,  suffered 
his  hands  to  remain  there.  Her  eyes  hung  upon  the 
two  who  confronted  the  many. 

Armstrong,  struggling  to  his  feet,  elbowed  his 
comrades  aside.  He  made  his  way  until  he  stood 
before  Lincoln.  He  held  out  his  hand  to  him,  open, 
palm  upward. 

"  Shake!"  he  said.  "  You  're  right!  And,  God, 
but  you  're  strong!" 

' '  Are  you  badly  hurt  1  There  is  blood  upon  your 
face!" 

Sylvia  Hall,  standing  in  the  doorway  of  the 
store,  found  some  embarrassment  in  expressing  her 
solicitude  when  the  handsome  young  man  with  hair 
like  bronze  entered  a  moment  later. 

"I  thank  you,  ma'am,"  he  replied;  "it  is  kind 
of  you.  It  is  nothing  that  will  not  wash  off." 

"It — perhaps  a  woman  should  not  see  these 
things,"  she  said,  in  some  confusion,  impelled  to 
make  apology  to  this  man.  "I  abhor  such  sights; 


78  A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

they  distress  me.  But  it  must  be  glorious  to  be 
brave ! ' ' 

"If  it  were  not  for  such  as  you,  men  would  not 
be  brave,"  made  answer  Eandolph,  with  a  look  at 
her  before  which  her  blue  eyes  fell. 

Without  further  word,  she  went  from  the  store 
through  the  street  of  the  settlement  to  the  house 
where  she  was  staying.  Not  once  in  all  the  way 
did  she  dare  look  back;  for  she  knew,  in  the  man 
ner  in  which  women  know  many  things,  that  a  pair 
of  warm  brown  eyes  followed  her  as  she  went.  And 
she  knew  that  to  look  into  them  again,  now,  was  to 
have  a  heart  utterly  and  forever  lost. 


CHAPTEB  VI 
THE  MILLHAND 

4fTT  rHY,  I  tell  you,  he  's  a  wonder!  He  's  a 
VV  wonder !  He  's  a  big  man,  Abe  Lincoln  is ! 
I  'm  with  him  most  of  the  time.  I  can  see  it.  I 
know  it.  You  can't  fool  me.  You  can't  fool  Denton 
Offutt  when  it  comes  to  men !  Why,  I  tell  you  what 
I  '11  do!  I  '11  give  him  thirty  years — he's  twenty- 
two  now — I  '11  give  him  thirty  years  to  be  President 
of  the  United  States;  that  's  what  I  '11  do!" 

Denton  Offutt,  giving  his  saucer  of  tea  a  final 
cooling  puff — it  was  characteristic  of  Denton  Offutt 
not  to  be  able  to  await  the  psychological  moment  in 
anything  he  did — gulped  it  down  with  a  strangling 
noise,  and  looked  about  upon  his  audience  to 
observe  the  effect  of  his  prophetic  assertion.  His 
audience  consisted  of  the  boarders  gathered  about 
the  supper  table  in  Kutledge's  tavern  on  the  even 
ing  after  the  bout  between  Lincoln  and  Armstrong. 
The  effect  of  his  impulsive  and  unreasoned 
claims  for  Lincoln's  future  was  not  all  that  the 
vanity  of  the  speaker  might  have  desired.  It  was 
not  because  those  who  heard  were  inclined  to  dis 
pute  anything  praiseful  which  might  be  said  of 
Lincoln.  He  had  been  a  hero  among  them  from  the 
beginning,  and  the  adventure  of  that  afternoon  had 

79 


80  A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

rendered  his  position  in  the  community  unassail 
able.  It  was  rather  because  the  remarks  came  from 
Denton  Offutt  that  they  did  not  receive  the 
expressed  endorsement  of  the  other  boarders.  For 
Denton  Offutt  had  been  discovered  to  possess  the 
trait  of  talking  too  much,  and  his  vociferations  were 
frankly  accepted  by  the  people  of  New  Salem  on 
that  basis.  On  this  occasion,  however,  Denton 
Offutt  was  convinced  that  he  had  not  talked  enough, 
and  immediately  set  about  making  up  the  deficit. 

"Honest?  Honest?"  he  cried,  as  though  some 
one  had  disputed  the  integrity  of  his  clerk!  "Why, 
he  's  the  honestest  man  that  ever  lived  anywhere. 
Why,  I  call  him  Honest  Abe !  Why,  last  week,  Mrs. 
Wiley  paid  sixpence  too  much  for  something  she 
bought,  and  when  Abe  found  it  out  he  shut  up  shop 
and  walked  'way  out  to  her  farm,  seven  miles  in  the 
country,  with  the  balance.  And  week  before  that 
he  found  a  little  weight  on  the  wrong  side  of  the 
scales  after  he  had  weighed  out  some  tea  for  Mrs. 
Poindexter,  and  he  hunted  around  town  for  three 
hours  until  he  found  her  and  gave  her  the  tea  that 
was  coming  to  her.  Don't  you  call  that  honest!" 

A  mumbled  acquiescence  went  about  the  supper 
table,  coming  to  audible  articulation  when  it  reached 
Mortimer  Eandolph,  who  had  decided  to  remain  in 
New  Salem  for  the  night,  after  many  elaborate  argu 
ments  with  himself  on  the  point,  none  of  which  in 
any  way  involved  a  pair  of  blue  eyes  of  lingering 
memory.  The  volcanic  Mr.  Offutt  was  exhibiting 


The  Millhand  81 

alarming  symptoms  of  another  eruption,  when  Lin 
coln  himself  appeared,  averting  the  phenomenon. 

' '  Where  yon  been,  Abe  ?  You  're  late ! ' '  cried 
Offutt,  in  the  midst  of  the  clamorous  welcome  which 
greeted  Lincoln. 

"Down  the  road  a  piece,"  replied  Lincoln,  wip 
ing  his  forehead  on  a  large  red  handkerchief,  drawn 
from  the  front  of  his  shirt.  In  his  free  hand  he  held 
a  small,  dingy,  dilapidated  book,  which  he  carefully 
deposited  on  the  table  at  his  elbow  when  he  sat 
down. 

"My,  but  you  look  blowed!"  piped  Offutt,  with 
an  air  of  proprietorship.  "What  you  got?"  he 
added,  without  a  pause,  catching  sight  of  the  book. 

"Kirkman's  Grammar,"  replied  Lincoln.  "Just 
been  out  to  Vaner's  to  get  it.  Mentor  Graham  told 
me  he  had  one.  It  's  the  only  one  in  the  county. 
Beckon  I  '11  know  a  heap  one  of  these  days,  eh,  Mr. 
Randolph  ?"  addressing  himself  to  Mortimer,  who 
sat  at  the  farther  end  of  the  table  from  him. 

"Well,  you  know,  you  're  the  smartest  man  in 
the  United  States  now,  Lincoln, ' '  returned  that  one, 
winking  at  Lincoln  and  glancing  slyly  at  Offutt. 

Lincoln  laughed,  and  the  tableful  laughed,  not 
entirely  knowing  why.  Offutt  himself  laughed, 
feebly,  as  he  applied  himself  to  an  apple  turnover 
that  Ann  Eutledge  brought  him,  with  a  vague  sus 
picion  that  he  was  being  made  a  butt.  His  oblitera 
tion  for  the  moment  was  complete,  for  Lincoln  fell 
to  discussing  matters  of  import  with  Eandolph,  and 


82  A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

the  others  at  table  followed  the  conversation  with 
an  attention  that  approached  reverent  awe.  Without 
knowing  why,  without  consciousness  that  it  was  so, 
these  rude,  rough  men  already  felt  subordinated  in 
the  presence  of  the  tall  grocer's  clerk  when  he  chose 
to  be  in  earnest. 

Mortimer  Randolph  was  glad  of  the  attention 
paid  him  by  the  hero  of  the  settlement  for  other 
reasons  than  the  pleasure  he  got  from  talking  with 
such  a  man.  He  had  sufficient  discernment  to  real 
ize  that  his  position  in  the  community  was  delicate. 
He  knew  there  was  a  prejudice  among  these  shaggy 
people  against  him  in  spite  of  the  account  he  had 
given  of  himself  that  afternoon;  that  they  resented 
his  deportment  and  manners;  that  they  held  his 
correct  speech  against  him ;  that  the  softness  of  his 
hands,  the  smoothness  of  his  skin,  the  texture  of 
his  clothes,  affronted  them.  He  fully  appreciated 
what  the  open  friendship  of  Lincoln  would  do  for 
him  in  establishing  him  in  favor  with  these  men 
of  the  frontier,  and  gratefully  made  the  most  of  it. 
Not  that  he  particularly  cared  what  they  thought 
of  him;  but — a  vision  of  the  blue  eyes  of  one  who 
dwelt  among  them  floated  through  his  mind 
bewilderingly. 

Denton  Offutt  was  not  to  be  suppressed  for  long, 
however,  by  any  discussion,  of  whatsoever  weight 
and  consequence.  Having  reduced  his  turnover  to 
a  series  of  shining  spirals  on  his  plate;  having 
cooled  in  his  saucer  and  drunk  another  cup  of  tea; 


The  Millhand  83 

having  picked  his  teeth  of  the  last  shred  of  supper, 
he  seized  upon  a  brief  lull  in  the  conversation,  and 
broke  forth  into  piping  voice. 

"Where  's  McNeill?  Where  's  John  McNeill 
to-night?"  he  cried.  "He  has  n't  been  here  to-night. 
Where  is  he?  Where  is  he?  Does  anybody  know 
where  he  is  ?  Ann,  do  you  know  where  he  is  ? " 

The  hand  of  Ann  Kutledge,  reaching  to  give 
Mortimer  Eandolph  a  dish  of  food,  trembled.  The 
voice  of  Ann  Butledge  shook  as  she  made  answer. 
The  trembling  of  the  hand,  the  shaking  of  the  voice, 
were  scarcely  perceptible.  Probably  no  one  at  the 
table  discerned  the  trembling  and  the  shaking  as 
she  made  answer,  save  Mortimer,  and  one  other. 
Observing  them  himself,  and  glancing  about  the 
table  to  see  if  others  did,  the  eyes  of  Mortimer 
rested  upon  the  face  of  Lincoln.  Lincoln  was  look 
ing  at  the  girl.  In  his  face  was  a  compassion,  a  pro 
tecting  tenderness,  that  made  it  beautiful,  sublime. 
Other  than  that  one  look  cast  upon  Ann  Eutledge, 
there  was  no  sign  among  them  all. 

"He  is  gone  East,"  said  the  girl,  simply. 

"What?"  said  Denton  Offutt,  in  a  voice  that 
was  half  a  scream.  "Left  his  store  and  gone 
East?" 

Lincoln's  glance  went  from  the  face  of  the  girl 
to  the  face  of  Offutt.  In  his  countenance  was  the 
look  of  one  who  watched,  waiting  to  rescue  when 
the  moment  of  need  should  come.  The  mind  of 
Mortimer  flew  swiftly  with  events. 


84  A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

"He  had  word  from  his  family  in  the  East," 
went  on  the  girl.  There  was  no  shake  in  the  voice 
now.  There  was  level  composure.  She  was  at  the 
back  of  Offutt 's  chair,  taking  his  empty  dishes.  The 
entire  board  was  listening  closely,  the  matter  being 
one  of  common  interest.  * '  He  had  to  leave  hastily, ' ' 
she  went  on,  indifferently. 

Denton  Offutt  gazed  wide-eyed  upon  the  others, 
groping  for  something  to  which  to  tie  thought.  He 
would  have  done  better  had  he  noted  the  face  of 
Lincoln,  his  clerk,  or  Mortimer;  but  his  eyes  were 
too  wide. 

"Well  —  is  n't  he  coming  back?  Is  n't  he  going 
to  marry  you  ? ' '  blurted  Denton  Offutt. 

"Why,  what  a  question,  Mr.  Offutt,"  laughed 
the  girl,  passing  into  the  kitchen  with  a  tray  of 
dishes. 

Mortimer  Eandolph,  having  divined  the  situa 
tion,  thought  of  a  score  of  things  to  say  to  Denton 
Offutt;  none  which  he  might  give  voice  to,  out  of 
consideration  for  the  young  woman.  He  was  forced 
to  content  himself  for  the  present  with  a  look  of 
indignant  contempt,  which  lighted  his  brown  eyes 
with  a  red,  flaring  glow.  A  laugh  went  around  the 
table ;  it  was  intended  to  be  at  the  expense  of  Offutt. 
The  sound  of  it  aroused  Mortimer  again.  He  was 
on  the  point  of  rebuking  them  all,  when  Ann  entered 
the  room.  Every  eye,  save  his  own,  was  upon  her. 
There  was  no  sign  on  her  face.  She  smiled  briefly, 


The  Millhand  85 

in  apparent  amusement  at  Offutt,  and  went  about 
her  work  in  her  customary  circumspect  manner. 

"That  makes  me  think  of  a  little  dog  that  a 
friend  of  mine  had  down  in  Kentucky  when  I  was 
a  boy,"  drawled  Lincoln,  as  Ann  busied  herself 
about  the  table.  "He  was  a  cute  little  dog;  he 
always  had  his  ears  pricked  up  and  his  eyes  wide 
open,  and  gave  other  indications  of  a  budding  intel 
ligence.  He  never  bit  anybody;  he  never  killed  the 
chickens  or  chased  the  pigs.  He  was  a  very  good 
little  dog,  as  dogs  go.  But  he  had  two  faults.  He 
barked  a  whole  lot  more  than  was  necessary,  and 
he  chewed  things  up.  Anything  from  a  plow  handle 
to  a  toothpick,  from  a  bed  quilt  to  a  handkerchief, 
that  he  could  get  a  hold  of,  he  gnawed  and  towsled 
as  long  as  there  was  anything  left  of  it. 

"Now,  down  at  the  bottom  of  the  forty  acres 
that  my  friend's  people  had,  was  an  old  rail  fence. 
The  yellow  jackets  had  made  a  nest  on  one  of  the 
bottom  rails.  One  day,  when  my  friend  and  I  and 
his  dog  were  out  tramping,  we  came  across  the  nest. 
Before  we  could  say  anything,  the  puppy  made  a 
leap  and  grabbed  it  with  his  mouth.  Now,  the 
yellow  jackets  didn't  know  the  dog,  and  by  the  time 
he  could  let  go,  his  head  was  twice  the  size  it  should 
have  been.  He  came  howling  and  whining  up  to  us 
with  his  eyes  shut  and  his  lips  puffed  out,  the  worst 
looking  dog  I  ever  saw.  My  friend  looked  at  him, 
and  looked  at  me.  'Abe,'  he  said;  'Abe!  That  con- 


86  A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

sarned  purp  never  did  know  just  what  his  mouth 
was  for  I' 

If  the  application  of  the  anecdote  was  obscure  to 
the  mind  of  Denton  Offutt,  he  was  alone  in  his  fail 
ure  to  appreciate  it.  The  others,  listening  through 
out  with  their  breath  held  and  their  faces  poised 
ready  for  a  laugh,  burst  forth  into  a  bellow  when 
the  tale  was  done  that  could  have  been  heard  as  far 
as  Offutt 's  store.  Offutt  joined  in  in  a  lost  manner, 
half  wondering  why  they  all  looked  at  him.  Morti 
mer  alone  did  not  laugh.  He  saw  far  below  the 
humor  of  the  story.  His  eyes  were  fixed  upon  the 
narrator  in  admiration  and  affection.  As  for  Ann, 
she  cast  one  grateful  glance  at  Lincoln,  which  he 
saw,  and  went  about  her  work  unnoticed. 

Considering  many  things — none  of  which  was  a 
pair  of  blue  eyes — Mortimer  Randolph  decided  on 
the  morning  of  the  next  day  that  it  was  not  entirely 
necessary  for  him  to  continue  his  journey  until  the 
following  day.  After  breakfast  he  wandered  across 
to  Offutt 's  store  to  explain  why  to  Abraham  Lin 
coln.  He  felt  a  moral  responsibility  in  making  his 
excuses  for  loitering  to  certain  of  the  citizens  of 
New  Salem.  He  had  already  imparted  them  to  Ann 
when  she  brought  him  his  breakfast,  with  a  formal 
smile  and  a  bright  countenance,  that  bore  no  trace 
of  her  emotions  of  the  previous  evening. 

He  found  Lincoln  stretched  at  full  length  on  the 
counter  of  the  store,  deep  in  the  pages  of  the  gram 
mar.  Lincoln  did  not  observe  his  approach,  for  he 


The  Millhand  87 

was  at  the  moment  conjugating  a  verb  of  many 
irregularities,  in  an  annoyed  and  audible  voice. 
Randolph,  undiscovered  still,  stood  beside  him  for 
a  moment,  running  his  eye  from  head  to  foot  and 
back  again,  marveling  at  the  tremendous  stature  of 
the  man.  He  had  never  before  been  so  impressed 
with  it. 

1  'About  how  long  are  you,  anyway,  Lincoln?" 
he  asked,  presently,  with  a  sociable  laugh.  There 
was  no  immediate  hurry  to  tell  him  why  he  was  n't 
going  on  that  day. 

Lincoln,  finishing  his  conjugation  without  so 
much  as  a  glance  at  his  visitor,  placed  his  long 
finger  between  the  leaves  of  the  book  and  swung 
into  a  sitting  posture,  his  drooping  toes  straggling 
to  the  floor. 

"I  'm  six  feet  four,  Randolph,"  he  replied. 
"Pretty  good  for  twenty-two  years,  ehl"  There 
was  pride  in  his  look  and  his  tone. 

"I  should  say  so,"  returned  Randolph.  "Think 
you  've  got  your  growth  I ' ' 

"Well,  I  think  so.  I  think  I  Ve  got  mine,  and 
half  of  somebody  else's." 

In  the  course  of  time  Mortimer  found  it  oppor 
tune  to  mention  his  change  of  plan.  Hearing  that 
he  intended  staying  through  another  day,  Lincoln 
passed  over  to  where  he  stood.  They  were  alone  in 
the  store.  The  tall  clerk  laid  his  arm  across  the 
shoulders  of  his  new  friend. 

"I  'm  glad  of  it,"  he  said.    There  was  a  sadness 


88  A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

in  his  eyes  as  he  spoke.  "I  'd  like  to  see  more  of 
you.  Somehow,  you  seem  to  bring  a  touch  to  life 
that  is  missing  here.  You  are  different  from  these 
people.  I  like  these  people.  They  are  good;  they 
are  honest;  you  can  count  on  them.  Whether  they 
are  friends  or  enemies,  you  can  tell  what  they  are 
going  to  do.  I  like  them  all;  even  Clary's  Grove 
boys,  rough  as  they  are.  But  something  seems  to 
be  lacking  in  'em,  and  you  have  got  just  that  some 
thing.  I  do  n't  know  what  it  is.  I  do  n't  know  any 
body  else  that  's  got  it,  excepting  Sylvia  Hall,  the 
girl  you  saw  here  yesterday,  and — Ann  Butledge." 
He  spoke  the  name  hesitatingly,  in  lower  voice. 
"But  they  're  girls,"  he  went  on,  "and  I  ain't  great 
shakes  with  the  girls.  Besides,  the  Hall  girl  will  be 
going  back  to  Indian  Creek  pretty  soon,  and  Ann 
Eutledge — "  He  paused.  Sadness  and  sorrow 
deepened  in  his  eyes.  "Well,  Ann  is  promised  to 
McNeill,  you  know. ' ' 

Mortimer  forebore  to  speak  of  that  in  any  way. 
He  made  no  reply  of  any  kind,  save  to  thank  Lin 
coln  briefly  for  what  he  had  said.  There  was  a  feel 
ing  in  his  thanks  beyond  the  simple  words  he  made 
use  of,  there  was  a  feeling  in  the  tone  and  the  look 
which  accompanied  them  which  could  not  readily 
have  found  expression  in  any  words ;  for  the  young 
Virginian  was  drawn  to  this  great,  gaunt  man  by 
a  quick,  living,  understanding  sympathy.  The  other 
sensed  the  feeling,  and  returned  it  through  a  pres 
sure  of  the  hand  that  clasped  Mortimer's  shoulder. 


The  Millhand  89 

There  was  silence  between  them,  until  a  customer 
entered  the  store.  Mortimer  departed  without 
further  word. 

Leaving  the  store,  he  wandered  down  the  road 
to  the  river.  He  loitered  along  its  banks,  among 
the  trees  of  a  little  grove  that  grew  there,  turning 
away  from  the  direction  which  the  road  took  toward 
Springfield.  There  were  matters  which  he  wished 
to  revolve  in  his  mind.  He  wished  to  contemplate 
the  new  friendship  he  had  found,  he  told  himself,  as 
he  loitered,  and  he  wished 

Some  one  sat  at  the  foot  of  a  tree,  in  among 
soft  mosses,  by  the  side  of  the  little  path  he  fol 
lowed  ;  some  one  in  a  dress  of  dainty  blue ;  some  one 
with  small,  dainty  hands  that  clasped  a  book  in  her 
lap ;  some  one  with  a  figure  of  exquisite  contour  and 
harmonious  grace;  some  one  with  hair  of  twisted 
gold  and  eyes  of  blue  that  he  had  first  seen  looking 
at  him  from  the  banks  of  that  river,  that  he  had 
last  seen  looking  at  him  on  the  afternoon  before; 
some  one  who  glanced  at  him  in  confusion,  half 
smiling,  uncertain  whether  she  would  speak  to  him. 

With  a  naturalness  which  freed  his  action  of 
impudence,  he  sat  beside  her  on  the  moss.  They 
fell  to  talking  of  many  things  as  they  sat  there 
looking  out  upon  the  river,  listening  to  the  river, 
listening  to  the  birds  and  the  bees  and  the  mill- 
wheel. 

The  next  day,  and  the  next,  and  the  fourth  day, 
Mortimer  Randolph  loitered  in  New  Salem.  "It 


90  A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

does  not  matter  if  I  do  not  reach  Vandalia  for  a 
week,"  he  told  Lincoln,  having  a  guilty  conscience. 

When  on  the  fifth  day  he  did  start,  some  one 
walked  at  his  side  as  he  led  Powhatan  down  the 
road  past  the  mill ;  soft  hands  put  a  sprig  of  golden 
rod  in  his  coat  lapel  before  he  mounted ;  white  hands 
stroked  the  velvet  nose  of  the  roan  ere  he  rode 
away ;  blue  eyes  followed  him  through  the  dust  until 
he  disappeared  down  the  road. 

In  a  week  he  was  back  again.  He  rode  up  to 
Offutt's  store  on  that  afternoon  with  a  song  on  his 
lips  and  a  light  in  his  eye,  to  tell  Lincoln  that  he 
meant  to  remain  in  New  Salem.  That  his  being 
there  might  embarrass  no  one,  he  sought  work  to 
do.  He  found  it  in  Cameron's  mill,  now  owned  by 
Denton  OfFutt,  frenzied  financier.  His  immediate 
superior,  and  the  man  from  whom  he  took  his 
orders,  was  Abraham  Lincoln,  boatman,  clerk,  and 
mill  superintendent. 

What  times  the  eyes  of  the  millhand  wandered 
through  the  window  and  down  among  the  trees 
beside  the  river,  leaving  the  stones  of  the  mill  to 
grind  nothing;  what  times  the  millhand  himself  fol 
lowed  his  wandering  eyes  when  they  found  what 
they  sought  among  the  trees  was  of  no  consequence 
or  effect  upon  his  tenure  of  office.  For  Lincoln  was 
his  immediate  superior,  and  the  heart  of  Lincoln 
could  not  suffer  the  hand  of  Lincoln  to  be  laid 
heavily  upon  a  lover. 


The  Millhand  91 

At  last  the  summer  drew  to  a  close.  The  time 
of  parting  came.  Their  father,  passing  through  the 
settlement  on  a  journey  to  Jefferson  Barracks,  had 
told  Eachel  and  Sylvia  to  be  ready  to  return  home 
with  him  on  a  certain  day.  The  eve  of  the  day  was 
at  hand. 

Mortimer  Randolph,  millhand,  walked  with 
Sylvia  Hall  through  the  moonlight  down  by  the  dam 
and  to  the  grove  where  he  had  first  sat  by  her  side 
on  a  morning  in  July.  It  was  late  in  September. 
It  was  cool.  They  did  not  sit  on  the  bank  of  moss 
which  had  been  their  retreat  during  the  hot  months 
of  summer,  but  walked  to  and  fro  near  the  spot  in 
the  little  path,  in  among  the  elms  and  oaks. 

Their  talk  was  of  many  things,  as  it  had  always 
been.  Not  once  had  there  been  word  of  love  between 
them.  As  they  strolled  this  night,  he  came  to  tell 
her  of  his  home  in  Virginia ;  of  his  mother  and  sis 
ters;  of  his  father  and  brother;  of  his  nephew  and 
niece,  children  of  his  brother.  He  spoke  of  his  love 
for  them,  of  his  longing  at  times  to  go  back  among 
them.  In  the  telling,  he  paused.  A  silence  fell  upon 
his  lips.  A  trembling  came  over  Sylvia  as  she  stood 
beside  him.  In  all  he  had  said  there  had  been  no 
hint  of  her,  yet  she  felt  that  he  had  paused  to  speak 
of  love. 

"Sylvia" — his  voice  was  low  and  earnest — 
"Sylvia,  we  have  not  known  each  other  long.  It  is 
scarcely  two  months.  But  in  that  time  we  have  seen 


92  A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

much  of  each  other.  And  in  that  time — "  He 
paused  once  more.  She  feared  that  he  would  hear 
the  beating  of  her  heart  in  the  hush  of  the  evening. 
He  began  again. 

' '  My  mother  taught  me  that  a  woman  is  sacred, ' ' 
he  said.  ''She  taught  me  that  no  man  should  con 
sider  her  lightly ;  that  no  man  might  trifle  with  even 
so  slight  a  thing  as  her  time ;  that  he  might  not  seek 
her  companionship  above  all  others  unless  there 
were  honest  love  in  the  seeking."  Another  pause. 
"I  would  not  have  you  think  that  I  have  forgotten 
the  teachings  of  my  mother,"  he  resumed;  "and 
yet,  to-night,  on  the  eve  of  your  departure,  I  cannot 
tell  you  that  I  love  you!"  His  words  were  slow, 
full  of  emotion,  full  of  regret.  For  a  moment  her 
heart  ceased  to  beat.  In  another  it  sent  the  pulses 
surging  through  her  until  she  would  have  reeled, 
if  she  had  not  put  out  a  hand  against  a  tree. 

"I  do  not  mean  that  I  think  you  would  have  me 
tell  you,"  he  went  on,  in  perfect  sincerity.  "I  do 
not  mean  that  I  think  you  would  be  glad  if  I  should. 
I  cannot  but  think  it  would  grieve  you,  in  the  kind 
ness  of  your  heart ;  I  cannot  doubt  that  you  would 
tell  me  in  all  gentleness  that  you  would  rather  there 
were  no  word  of  love  between  us." 

If  he  had  looked  at  her  pale  face,  where  the 
moon  shone  upon  it  through  the  leaves  of  the  trees 
beneath  which  they  stood ;  if  he  had  seen  her  parted, 
quivering  lips,  the  tears  half  formed  in  her  eyes, 


The  Millhand  93 

the  frightened,  wistful  look,  he  would  have  known 
how  far  from  the  truth  he  had  gone.  But  he  did 
not  look. 

"I  have  wronged  you,  Sylvia,"  he  resumed. 
"Not  because  I  may  have  led  you  to  expect  that  I 
would  tell  you  of  my  love  before  you  left;  not 
because  I  have  sought  you  out  diligently  above  all 
others  in  the  earth  without  an  honest  love  in  the 
seeking,  but  because  I  have  sought  you  out  at  all." 
He  paused;  a  fervor  was  creeping  into  his  words 
which  he  seemed  to  struggle  against.  When  he  went 
on  it  had  gone;  there  was  feeling  in  his  tones,  but 
they  were  calm. 

"I  am  not  permitted  to  make  you  understand; 
there  is  much  that  I  shall  have  to  leave  to  your 
inference,  and  your  charity,"  he  said.  "Sylvia,  I 
am  a  stranger  to  you.  I  am  a  stranger  to  all  who 
know  you  and  protect  you.  You  do  not  know  what 
I  am.  You  cannot  be  sure  that  I  am  what  I  may 
seem  to  you  to  be.  I  am  a  millhand  only  that  I  may 
be  near  you.  Cannot  you  see  how  it  is  possible  that 
I  may  have  wronged  you  ? ' ' 

Her  voice  was  faint  and  afar  off  when  she  sought 
to  answer,  but  grew  stronger  as  she  proceeded. 

"You  are  not  a  stranger  to  me,"  she  said.  "I 
have  learned  what  you  are.  There  is  that  in  a 
woman  which  tells  her.  I  do  not  need  to  be  told 
what  you  are. ' ' 

For  a  space  there  was  silence  between  them.  It 
was  his  voice,  slow  and  solemn,  which  broke  it. 


94  A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

"If  I  should  tell  you  that  when  I  left  that  home 
of  which  I  have  spoken  to-night,  I  left  it  under  a 
shadow ;  that  I  left  it  reviled,  despised,  condemned ; 
that  a  darkness  lingers  over  my  name  among  my 
own  people  even  as  I  speak  to  you,  would  you  under 
stand  how  I  have  wronged  you,  and  how  bitterly  I 
accuse  myself?" 

"If  your  own  lips  should  tell  me  evil  things 
about  yourself,  I  should  not  believe  them ;  but  in  all 
else  I  should  believe  you  utterly, ' '  she  made  answer. 
She  turned  her  face  toward  him,  reverently,  long 
ingly.  He  gazed  across  the  flowing  river  that 
muttered  through  the  shadows  of  the  trees. 

"But  it  is  true,  Sylvia,"  he  said.  His  voice  had 
sunk  almost  to  a  whisper.  "It  is  even  as  I  said.  I 
may  tell  you  more  than  that.  I  may  not  even  tell 
you  so  much  as  to  say  that  it  should  not  be  as  it  is. 
Some  day,  perhaps,  the  way  may  be  made  clear  for 
me.  Some  day,  perhaps,  I  may  come  seeking  you 
in  perfect  honor.  If  the  day  never  comes,  I  should 
like  to  feel  in  my  last  hours  that  I  had  lingered  in 
your  memory  as  the  man  I  may  have  seemed  to  be ; 
as  the  millhand  with  whom  you  once  walked  and 
talked  beside  the  river  and  beneath  the  trees. ' ' 

He  had  finished.  She  laid  her  hand  upon  his 
arm. 

"May  I  tell  you  that  I  should  believe  in  you 
though  the  whole  world  cried  evil  against  you?" 
she  said.  "May  I  tell  you  that  I  shall  have  faith 
in  you  to  the  last  day?" 


The  Millhand  95 

For  an  instant  he  pressed  her  hand,  cold  and 
trembling,  on  his  arm. 

"You  make  me  brave,"  he  said.  "Come;  you 
are  cold.  Your  hand  trembles.  We  must  return." 


CHAPTER  VII 
SHADOWS 

IN  the  morning  they  left.  All  New  Salem  turned 
out  to  see  them  off,  and  to  banter  Eachel  and 
William  Munson;  for  William  Munson  had  pro 
gressed  so  far  in  the  affections  of  Eachel  that  it 
was  necessary  to  banter  them.  William  repaid  them 
for  their  trouble  by  kissing  Kachel  full  on  the 
mouth  in  the  presence  of  all,  and  having  his  ears 
soundly  boxed  for  his  pains ;  all  of  which,  and  much 
else,  delighted  the  people  of  New  Salem  beyond 
measure,  so  that  the  cavalcade  moved  off  at  last 
before  a  gale  of  laughter. 

Between  Mortimer  and  Sylvia  there  were  only 
the  most  casual  words  of  parting,  to  the  disappoint 
ment  and  confusion  of  the  people  of  the  settlement, 
who  had  not  been  ignorant  of  the  principal  occupa 
tion  of  the  millhand  through  the  summer.  None 
ventured  upon  any  witticisms  at  their  expense. 
There  was  that  about  each  of  them,  quite  uninten 
tional  on  his  or  her  part,  which  debarred  the  rough 
settlers  from  any  close  approach  to  such  familiarity. 

With  a  last  wave  of  farewell,  as  the  party  disap 
peared  down  the  road,  Mortimer  returned  to  his 
work  at  the  mill,  whence  his  eyes  wandered  through 
a  grove  of  trees  by  the  river  side,  over  a  scene  of 

96 


Shadows  97 

utter  and  blighting  desolation.  From  that  hour  he 
found  his  only  comfort  in  the  company  of  Abraham 
Lincoln — in  that,  and  in  the  hope  that  he  would  not 
relinquish. 

The  company  of  Lincoln  was  not  so  easily 
obtained  as  it  had  been.  From  the  night  when  Den- 
ton  Offutt  had  blundered  in  remarking  the  absence 
of  McNeill,  Lincoln  was  found,  or  was  missed,  more 
and  more  frequently  in  the  company  of  Ann  But- 
ledge.  In  the  beginning  of  her  trouble  he  had  been 
her  champion.  The  story  he  had  told  that  night 
had  saved  her  much.  As  time  passed,  and  evil 
things  came  to  be  whispered  about  McNeill  and  his 
sudden  departure,  it  was  Lincoln  who  laughed  them 
to  scorn  in  her  own  ears,  and  silenced  them  upon 
the  lips  of  those  who  spoke  them.  As  time  passed, 
and  the  faith  of  her  friends  in  the  man  who  had 
gone  began  to  wane,  it  was  Lincoln  alone  who  made 
her  brave  to  believe  in  him.  As  time  passed,  and 
her  own  confidence  grew  faint,  it  was  this  gaunt 
and  homely  man  whose  charity  brought  a  shame  to 
her  cheeks.  And  as  time  passed,  she  sought  his 
comfort  and  courage  more  and  more,  until  there 
was  rarely  a  day  when  he  did  not  spend  his  spare 
time  with  her. 

Together  they  read  books  that  he  borrowed.  He 
taught  her  the  contents  of  the  grammar  he  had  had 
of  Vaner,  going  again  the  six  miles  to  get  it  for  her. 
They  read  such  volumes  as  they  could  find,  and  dis 
cussed  them  together.  He  went  with  her  to  the  little 


98  A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

social  gatherings  of  the  community,  shielding  her 
from  glances  and  whispers.  If  need  had  been,  he 
would  have  fought  with  his  fists  for  her.  That  he 
did  not  have  to  do.  His  estate  had  risen  among  his 
people.  He  had  arrived,  according  to  the  lights  of 
New  Salem.  He  was  deferred  to. 

Winter  came.  The  mill  was  closed.  Mortimer 
found  such  other  employment  as  he  was  able.  He 
had  no  lack  of  money,  but  for  the  sake  of  his  con 
tentment  and  his  reputation  among  the  neighbors, 
he  kept  himself  at  odd  tasks  whenever  he  could. 
Thus  he  worked  through  the  cold  months,  living  in 
the  tavern,  rejoicing  in  the  moments  when  he  could 
have  his  friend  alone,  delighting  in  the  hours  when 
Lincoln  told  stories  to  the  men  in  the  tavern 's  public 
room,  or  among  the  boxes  in  Offutt's  store.  The 
sadness  seemed  less  frequent  in  the  other's  eyes  as 
time  wore  on.  Only,  when  it  came,  it  was  more  sad 
than  it  had  been. 

One  day  a  letter  came  to  Mortimer  from  Vir 
ginia.  The  postmaster  made  a  special  trip  to  the 
farm  where  Mortimer  was  employed  that  day  to 
deliver  it.  He  felt  that  it  must  be  important,  as  it 
came  from  a  law  firm  in  Bichmond.  He  made  many 
overtures  of  his  services  when  Mortimer  was  read 
ing  it,  and  lingered  long  and  hopefully  about  the 
spot.  However,  he  had  nothing  to  report  when  he 
returned  to  Offutt's  store,  where  a  volunteer  com 
mittee  of  townspeople  awaited  him. 

That  night  Mortimer  sought  out  Abraham  Lin- 


Shadows  99 

coin,  under  the  human  necessity  of  telling  his  happi 
ness  to  some  one.  He  had  already  confided  to  him 
his  love  for  Sylvia.  For  a  long  time  they  conversed 
in  low  tones  in  Mortimer's  room.  When  Lincoln 
came  out,  he  was  full  of  thought,  and  glad. 

On  the  next  morning,  Mortimer,  mounting 
"Powhatan,"  set  out  from  the  village  of  New 
Salem,  turning  his  face  to  the  northeast.  One  hun 
dred  and  fifty  miles  ahead  of  him,  by  the  road  he 
traveled,  was  the  town  of  Ottawa.  Twelve  miles 
north  of  Ottawa  was  the  little  settlement  of  Indian 
Creek,  the  home  of  Sylvia  Hall. 

It  was  a  weary  way.  The  roads  were  little  bet 
ter  than  trails  for  the  most  part;  in  places  they 
were  worse.  The  mud  was  interminable  and  bot 
tomless.  During  the  daytime  the  rain  was  almost 
incessant.  In  the  mornings  and  the  evenings  the 
mud  was  partly  frozen,  making  travel  painful.  Yet 
ever  as  he  rode  a  song  was  on  his  lips ;  and  ever  as 
he  rode  he  took  from  his  pocket,  from  time  to  time, 
the  letter  he  had  received  the  day  before  he  left,  and 
read  it  with  a  radiant  face. 

It  was  four  days  before  he  reached  Ottawa.  He 
arrived  in  a  heavy  rain,  and  so  late  at  night  that  he 
could  go  no  farther  until  morning. 

On  the  night  he  stopped  at  Ottawa,  another  trav 
eler,  sputtering  through  the  rain  and  the  mud, 
sought  refuge  in  the  cabin  of  William  Hall  at  Indian 
Creek.  He  was  a  short,  round  man  with  a  short, 
round  head,  fitting  close  to  his  body;  with  a  round, 


100          A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

red  face  in  which  were  set  a  pair  of  widely  sep 
arated  blue  eyes  that  stuck  out  like  lobsters'  eyes. 
Their  moisture  when  the  door  was  opened  to  his 
knock  further  increased  the  similarity. 

"WJiy,  Ike  Frake!  For  the  land's  sake!"  cried 
Eachel  Hall.  It  was  she  who  had  opened  the  door. 
"Why,  you're  wet  as  sop!  Come  right  in;  My, 
how  it  blows ! ' ' 

Isaac  Frake,  by  virtue  of  having  traveled  from 
Ohio  in  migration  with  the  Hall  family,  and  of  hav 
ing  been  a  frequent  visitor  at  their  home  in  subse 
quent  journeys  back  and  forth,  was  heartily  wel 
comed  by  the  other  members  of  the  family.  Young 
William  Hall,  slapping  him  on  the  back  three  or 
four  times  on  the  strength  of  having  been  a  com 
rade  in  arms  with  him,  ran  to  fetch  a  dry  coat.  The 
elder  Hall  produced  a  flask  of  whisky  and  poured 
out  half  a  glassful  from  it,  which  Frake  swallowed 
with  unction.  Mother  Hall  hastened  about  in  search 
of  food  for  the  traveler.  Eachel  tittered  and  giggled 
at  him,  keeping  up  a  continuous  chatter  the  while. 
Only  Sylvia  took  no  part  in  the  various  activities 
of  greeting.  It  appeared  from  the  sour  look  of  dis 
appointment  on  his  face  that  her  welcome  was  the 
one  of  them  all  about  which  he  had  the  greatest 
concern. 

If  there  were  any  trace  of  the  fingers  of  the 
Indian  on  the  neck  or  the  soul  of  Isaac  Frake,  they 
were  not  discernible  as  he  presently  sat  by  the  fire 
in  a  coat  belonging  to  the  elder  Hall — much  too 


Shadows  101 

small  for  him — with  a  glass  of  toddy  in  his  hand; 
which  also  seemed  somewhat  too  small  as  he  tossed 
it  into  his  round  face  without  a  flicker  of  his  round 
eyes.  He  was  abundantly  healthful,  with  a  rough 
vigor  of  body  and  a  blunt  good  humor.  There  was 
something  in  his  good  humor,  however,  which  sug 
gested  that  it  was  ephemeral,  and  sat  lightly  upon 
the  round  surface  of  the  man. 

"For  the  land's  sake,  where  you  been?  We 
ain't  seen  you  for  nigh  on  two  years!"  cried  Rachel 
for  the  twentieth  time,  pausing  for  the  first  time  to 
let  him  answer. 

"Why,  I  've  been  staying  home  tending  my  own 
affairs,"  returned  Frake,  with  an  attempt  at  levity 
in  his  tone  and  a  look  at  Sylvia  meant  to  be  gently 
satirical,  but  which  passed  into  an  expression  of 
dogged  resentment.  "I  was  afraid  you  wouldn't 
know  who  I  was  when  you  got  back.  Some  of  you 
don't  seem  to."  His  look  became  almost  surly,  in 
spite  of  himself,  as  he  concluded. 

Eachel  snickered,  with  immoderate  relish.  There 
was  a  tradition  in  the  Hall  family  involving  the 
futures  of  Sylvia  and  Frake.  It  had  no  more  sub 
stantial  foundation  than  the  propitiatory  attitude 
toward  the  young  woman  which  the  man  had  always 
displayed,  and  a  matter  of  fact  acceptance  of  such 
an  eventuality  on  the  part  of  the  family  in  general 
as  being  a  satisfactory  solution  of  the  vexing  and 
vital  problem,  always  serious  to  the  early  settlers, 
of  marrying  off  their  daughter.  Sylvia  had  always 


102  A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

given  her  parents  keen  anxiety  because  of  her  fail 
ure  to  appreciate  the  importance  of  acquiring  a  hus 
band  and  of  a  certain  lofty  indifference  to  the 
swains  who  had  had  the  temerity  to  court  her. 
Wherefore  the  attentions  of  Frake  had  been  the 
more  welcome ;  especially  as  it  was  generally  under 
stood  that  he  was  a  leading  man  in  the  new  Bock 
River  country  and  a  patriot  who  had  done  much  to 
open  the  district  for  settlement. 

Sylvia  herself  was  so  far  out  of  harmony  with 
the  plan  that  on  all  occasions  she  treated  the  man 
with  an  indifference  more  crushing  than  scorn. 
To-night  she  arose  from  her  seat  on  the  bench  oppo 
site  to  him  in  the  midst  of  the  look  which  he  fastened 
upon  her  after  his  ill-natured  remark,  and  left  the 
room,  completely  ignoring  the  very  existence  of 
such  a  man  as  Isaac  Frake  as  her  swishing  skirts 
swept  his  knees. 

"You  won't  find  it  so  easy  with  Sylvia  now,  Mr. 
Frake,"  simpered  Rachel,  as  the  man  watched  her 
sister  passing  into  the  little  room  partitioned  off 
from  the  large  apartment  for  the  use  of  the  sisters. 
"You've  got  a  rival,  you  know!" 

"Is  that  so?"  returned  Frake,  with  an  appear 
ance  of  unconcern  and  amiability  which  obtained 
credit  with  Rachel.  There  were  strains  of  wisdom 
in  Frake. 

"She  don't  never  say  anything  to  me  about  it, 
but  the  way  she  went  on  at  New  Salem  with  Morti- 


Shadows  103 

mer  Randolph  was  something  to  take  your  breath ! ' ' 
went  on  the  girl. 

"With  who?"  demanded  Frake,  abruptly. 

"With  Mortimer  Randolph, "  pursued  the  girl, 
oblivious  of  his  emphatic  interest  in  the  name.  '  *  Oh, 
he  's  an  awful  dandy !  One  of  them  eastern  fellers, 
I  reckon.  Land  sakes,  Mr.  Frake,  afore  I  'd  take 
up  with  one  of  them  eastern  dandies ! ' ' 

"Uhuh!"  grunted  Mr.  Frake,  with  profound 
meaning  in  the  sound,  and  a  distortion  of  his  round 
features  that  fairly  squeezed  significance  from  their 
creases. 

"Why,  Mr.  Frake,  what  makes  you  look  so?" 
queried  the  girl,  perceiving. 

"Oh,  nothing,"  returned  Frake,  with  an  owlish 
rolling  of  his  protuberant  blue  eyes. 

"Oh,  get  along,  Mr.  Frake!"  cried  the  girl, 
giggling.  * '  What  do  you  mean  ? ' ' 

Frake  turned  to  young  William  Hall,  who  sat 
by  the  chimney  cleaning  his  musket,  but  half  heeding 
their  conversation. 

"Bill,"  he  said,  addressing  the  young  man, 
"you  remember  the  morning  last  year  when  we  got 
to  Saukenuk?  Remember  the  man  that  made  the  fine 
speech  about  the  Indian  woman  with  the  papoose 
that  came  to  me  begging  money  for  whisky!" 

Frake  was  perfectly  aware  that  young  Hall  could 
not  know  what  the  woman  had  begged  of  him,  she 
having  spoken  in  the  Sauk  tongue. 

"Which  one  was  that?"  returned  William  Hall, 


104          A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

Jr.,  intent  for  the  moment  on  his  gun,  in  which  his 
ramrod  had  become  jammed. 

4 'Oh,  the  one  with  the  red  hair  that  was  so 
damned  anxious — excuse  me,  Miss  Hall — so  very 
anxious  about  what  was  going  to  happen  to  the 
Indians  all  the  way  up  the  river ! ' '  continued  Frake. 

Eachel,  laying  down  the  shirt  which  she  was 
making  for  her  brother,  stared  from  one  to  the 
other. 

"Sure,  I  remember!"  ejaculated  young  Hall, 
setting  his  gun  down  and  scratching  his  head  reflec 
tively.  "He  was  a  smart  aleck!  Say,  do  you  know 
what?"  he  added,  with  a  flood  of  recollection,  "I 
saw  him  go  sneaking  off  into  the  hill  after  that 
woman  with  the  papoose,  and  after  a  while  I  saw 
them  come  sneaking  back  together,  mighty  friendly- 
like!" 

William  Hall,  the  son,  impressed  with  the  start 
ling  character  of  this  information,  looked  at  his 
sister  and  the  guest  to  observe  its  effect,  with  many 
nods  of  the  head.  Kachel's  mouth  grew  wider  and 
wider  as  she  stared  at  the  two.  Frake,  not  feeling 
called  upon  to  enter  into  a  detailed  account  of  the 
sequence  of  the  events  of  the  morning  under  discus 
sion,  half  closed  his  eyes  and  glanced  casually  into 
the  fire. 

1 '  Of  course,  you  didn  't  happen  to  notice  whether 
the  papoose  was  a  full-blooded  Indian,  or  a  half- 
breed,  did  you?"  he  observed  unconcernedly. 

Young  Hall,  scratching  his  head  again  to  stir  his 


Shadows  105 

memory,  allowed  that  it  was  powerful  pale  for  a 
full-blooded  Indian.  Frake  grunted  significantly, 
and  said  nothing. 

1  'But  what's  all  that  got  to  do  with  Mr.  Ran 
dolph?"  cried  Rachel,  bursting  with  suspense  and 
curiosity. 

"Oh,  I  don't  like  to  say,"  returned  Frake,  gaz 
ing  into  the  fire  still,  in  evident  embarrassment. 

"Isaac  Frake,  tell  us!  What  do  you  mean!" 
insisted  Rachel. 

"Oh,  well,"  said  Frake,  reluctantly,  "all  I  know 
is  that  the  name  of  this  fellow  I've  been  telling  you 
about  was  Randolph." 

* '  The  dirty  skunk ! ' '  cried  William  Hall,  glower 
ing.  "If  he  comes  around  my  sister,  I'll  make  a 
sieve  of  him." 

"Well,  now,  of  course,  maybe  his  first  name 
wasn't  Mortimer,"  interceded  Frake.  "I  don't 
know  what  his  first  name  was. ' ' 

"Oh,  it  was,  I  know  it  was,"  gasped  Rachel,  re 
covering  her  breath.  "I  knew  he  was  no  good  when 
I  first  set  eyes  on  him.  Nobody  with  such  airs  ever 
was  any  good.  And  nobody  in  New  Salem  never 
knew  anything  about  him ;  he  jest  wandered  in  there. 
Oh !  Oh !  Oh !  I  knew  it !  I  knew  it !  I  knew  it  I" 

In  vain  did  Frake  essay  to  stem  the  flood  of 
angry  suspicion  which  he  had  loosed.  To  no  avail 
did  he  endeavor  to  explain  and  extenuate  on 
hypotheses  that  would  leave  the  reputation  and 
character  of  Mortimer  Randolph  not  utterly  black. 


106  A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

His  attempted  suggestions  were  futile.  All  he  could 
say  only  strengthened  suspicion  into  conviction. 

1  'But  for  heaven's  sake  don't  say  a  word  about 
it  to  Sylvia,"  he  pleaded  with  Rachel,  relinquishing 
his  efforts  to  save  the  man.  ''What's  the  good  of 
her  knowing?"  he  argued.  "He  may  never  show 
up  again,  and  she  '11  get  over  it.  If  he  does  show 
up,  there  '11  be  time  enough  to  let  her  know.  Now, 
you  won't  tell  her,  will  you,  Rachel?" 

Rachel,  posting  off  to  her  room  immediately 
without  replying  to  his  anxious  petition,  Frake  sat 
down  to  the  supper  which  Mother  Hall  had  mean 
while  been  preparing  for  him,  sufficiently  satisfied 
in  his  mind  that  Sylvia  would  know  everything,  and 
much  more,  before  he  should  have  finished  the 
victuals. 

What  passed  between  Sylvia  and  her  sister  over 
night  was  in  no  wise  to  be  inferred  from  the  appear 
ance  of  the  elder  when  the  family  gathered  at  their 
breakfast  of  pork  and  hominy  in  the  morning;  but 
the  sullen  face  of  Rachel  made  it  obvious  to  Frake 
that  she  had  not  carried  conviction  with  her  tale. 

The  remotest  reference  to  Randolph  was  avoided. 
Throughout  the  meal  Frake  was  the  embodiment  of 
innocence  and  frankness.  He  dilated  upon  the  state 
of  the  country.  He  described  the  melancholy  con 
ditions  in  Chicago,  whence  he  had  come,  character 
izing  the  settlement  as  a  hopeless  mud  hole.  He  dis 
cussed  politics  and  other  matters  of  passing  interest 
for  the  benefit  of  the  elder  Hall.  He  ingenuously 


Shadows  107 

pointed  out  from  time  to  time  the  great  promises 
held  in  the  new  Rock  River  country,  where  he  held 
some  sections,  now  that  Black  Hawk  had  been 
driven  out,  and  pictured  a  rosy  future  for  that  part 
of  the  State.  On  the  whole,  he  conducted  himself 
like  a  perfectly  guileless  man  of  healthful  interests 
and  wholesome  enthusiasm,  to  the  eminent  satisfac 
tion  of  father  and  mother,  son  and  the  dark-eyed 
sister.  This,  in  the  circumstances,  was  wisely  diplo 
matic  on  the  part  of  Isaac  Frake. 

They  were  at  the  end  of  the  meal.  Eachel  and 
Sylvia  were  clearing  away  the  dishes;  the  men, 
pushing  back  their  chairs,  were  filling  their  pipes; 
the  talk  had  guttered  down  into  the  dim  vapidities 
of  well-fed  complacency;  when  a  tremendous  com 
motion  among  the  fowl  in  the  yard,  the  furious  bark 
ing  of  the  settlement  dogs,  and  the  clatter  of  hurry 
ing  hoofs,  arrested  all  that  they  did  and  brought 
William  Hall,  the  son,  to  the  door  of  the  house  in 
sudden  excitement. 

Opening  the  door  and  glancing  out,  he  turned  a 
black  look  upon  those  in  the  room. 

"Here  comes  the  dirty  skunk  now!"  he  growled. 

If  it  had  been  physiologically  possible  for  the 
face  of  Isaac  Frake  to  exhibit  pallor,  he  would  have 
been  pale  when  he  learned  that  Mortimer  Randolph 
had  come  there ;  for  he  was  as  certain  that  it  was  he 
as  though  his  name  had  been  used  instead  of  the 
epithet.  By  a  struggle  he  repressed  all  signs, 
merely  looking  from  one  to  another  of  those  present 


108  A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

with  an  open  and  questioning  countenance,  as 
though  inquiring  the  meaning  of  the  unaccountable 
behavior  of  the  young  man. 

In  a  moment  Mortimer  Eandolph  was  in  the 
doorway.  At  sight  of  him  Rachel,  with  a  little 
scream,  grasped  Sylvia  by  the  arm.  "William  Hall 
stared  dumbly  at  him,  understanding  nothing.  His 
wife  wiped  her  arms  nervously  on  her  apron. 
Young  William  Hall  stood  aside,  glowering.  Frake 
grinned  and  nodded  with  an  expression  of  pleased 
surprise.  As  for  Sylvia,  she  looked  at  him  as  she 
had  always  looked  at  him  when  in  the  presence  of 
others ;  save  that  her  face  was  pale. 

His  clothing  was  draggled  and  spattered  with 
mud.  Flecks  of  it  were  on  his  face ;  it  plastered  his 
hands ;  it  encased  and  hid  his  boots.  Clearly  he  had 
ridden  fast ;  how  fast  they  might  have  known  if  they 
had  seen  Powhatan  gasping  for  breath  in  the  yard 
without. 

The  expression  on  Mortimer's  face  was  intense. 
He  was  alert,  vivid  with  life  and  action.  His 
smouldering  eyes,  his  bronze  hair  straggling  across 
his  pale  forehead  as  he  stood  with  hat  in  hand,  his 
disheveled  condition  enhanced  his  handsome  and 
impressive  appearance. 

His  eyes  passed  swiftly  from  one  to  another  of 
those  who  were  in  the  room.  A  glance  of  passing 
recognition  for  the  younger  Hall,  slight  as  the  unim 
portance  of  that  young  man  merited ;  a  look  at  Frake 
in  which  was  a  momentary  trace  of  surprise  at  see- 


Shadows  109 

ing  him  there,  and  at  seeing  him  with  the  breath  of 
life  still  in  his  body ;  a  nod  at  the  elder  Hall ;  a  bow 
to  his  wife;  a  glimpse  at  Eachel;  a  clinging  of  his 
eyes  for  an  instant  upon  Sylvia. 

"I  have  news  for  you,"  he  said,  full  voiced,  but 
calm.  ' '  I  do  not  wish  to  alarm  you ;  I  only  desire  to 
put  you  on  guard  against  the  possibilities  which  you 
may  be  called  upon  to  confront.  There  are  many 
rumors  flying  about  the  Indians.  Shaubena  was  at 
Ottawa  last  night  with  many  tales.  Black  Hawk  has 
crossed  the  Mississippi  with  a  thousand  braves,  he 
says,  and  marches  inland.  Shaubena  is  our  friend. 
He  tells  what  he  believes." 

Eachel,  with  a  shriek  of  terror,  threw  herself  into 
her  sister's  arms.  The  son  forgot  his  look  of  dislike. 
The  father  came  closer,  eager  to  hear  more.  The 
mother  wound  and  unwound  her  apron  about  her 
hands.  Frake  sat  dumb  and  transfixed,  his  eyes 
starting  from  his  head.  As  for  Sylvia,  she  stroked 
the  dark  hair  of  her  sister,  whispering  to  her.  Her 
eyes  rested  upon  the  face  of  Mortimer  Randolph,  as 
they  always  rested  when  others  were  about. 

He  told  them  many  of  the  wild  stories  that  had 
come  to  Ottawa,  discounting  them  as  he  told  them. 
He  answered  such  questions  as  he  could.  For  a 
space  it  was  forgotten,  in  the  excitement  of  the 
threatened  danger,  that  he  was  more  than  any  other 
man.  Between  them  all  was  the  spell  of  common 
danger.  It  was  he  who  broke  it  by  intruding  the 
personal  element. 


110          A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

"Frake,"  he  said,  "the  men  who  care  to  go  to 
protect  the  frontier  are  gathering  at  Nixon's.  Mr. 
Hall,  I  should  not  wish  to  presume  to  make  sugges 
tions,  but  I  hope  you  will  consider  well  before  either 
yourself  or  your  son  leaves  your  family  here  with 
out  all  the  protection  that  is  available.  I  myself 
must  go  immediately  to  the  mouth  of  the  Eock  Eiver 
to  see  if  anything  can  be  done  with  the  Indians.  It 
may  be  that  Black  Hawk  can  be  diverted.  I  came 
this  way  to  let  you  know.  I  must  hurry  on.  Do  not 
alarm  yourselves.  At  the  worst,  you  will  only  need 
to  exercise  precaution.  Good  day!" 

With  a  swift,  wistful  look  at  Sylvia  he  turned 
from  the  door  and  passed  to  Powhatan.  Sylvia, 
gently  laying  aside  her  sister's  arms,  glided  after 
him.  Her  brother  would  have  detained  her.  She 
passed  him  and  went  to  the  side  of  Mortimer. 

"You  are  going — at  once?"  she  murmured,  with 
downcast  eyes. 

"Sylvia,  I  must!"  he  answered,  with  emotion. 
'  *  I  have  much  to  tell  you.  I  left  New  Salem  to  come 
to  tell  you.  But  this  news —  I  must  go  at  once, 
Sylvia.  I  have  had  dealings  with  the  Indians.  For 
a  time  I  was  with  the  Indian  agency  headquarters  at 
Jefferson  Barracks.  Perhaps  I  have  some  influence. 
Perhaps  I  can  avert  the  danger.  Perhaps  I  can  at 
least  reduce  it."  He  paused.  "It  was  good  of  you 
to  give  me  these  few  words  with  you. ' '  He  took  her 
hand  for  an  instant.  "I  have  much  to  tell  you;  I 


Shadows  111 

shall  come  when  I  can  to  tell  it  to  you.    Good-bye, 
Sylvia!" 

Their  eyes  met.  She  bade  him  no  farewell  with 
her  voice.  She  could  not.  He  rode  away,  dragging 
her  heart  after  him  over  the  rough  road  through  the 
cold  grey  April  morning.  Would  to  Heaven  he 
might  have  said  what  he  had  come  to  say  to  her 
before  he  had  ridden  away  to  the  Indians ! 

1  'It's  him  all  right,"  said  William  Hall  the  son, 
exchanging  glances  with  Frake  when  Sylvia  left  the 
room. 

"It  sure  is,  I  am  sorry  to  say,"  returned  Frake. 

"Sunning  right  off  to  the  Indians,  the  first 
thing ! ' '  cried  Rachel.  ' '  Now  I  wonder  if  Miss  Obsti 
nacy  will  believe  what  I  tell  her ! ' '  There  was  a  ring 
of  malicious  exultation  in  her  voice,  distinctly 
feminine. 

"The  dirty  skunk!"  growled  the  junior  Hall; 
"it's  goldarned  funny  how  much  he  seems  to  think 
of  them  Indians.  Tears  like  he  didn't  want  some  of 
'em  to  git  killed ! ' ' 

"Shame  on  you,  Bill  Hall!"  expostulated  Frake. 
"Hush,"  he  added  with  solicitude;  "here's  your 
sister.  She  mustn't  know." 

Sylvia  Hall,  her  face  like  the  grey  morning  into 
which  her  lover  had  ridden  away,  passed  across  the 
room  to  where  the  dishes  stood  ready  to  be  cleaned. 


CHAPTER     VIII 

LOVE  AND  FEAR 

village  of  New  Salem  was  all  astir  again ;  to 
JL  the  last  citizen  it  had  turned  out  and  was  down 
by  Cameron's  dam  once  more  on  another  April 
morning,  tingling  with  excitement.  New  Salem  had 
had  many  blessings  to  be  thankful  for  since  it  had 
gathered  by  the  dam  on  that  April  morning  the  year 
before  to  watch  a  long  and  angular  boatman  get  a 
flat-boat  over  the  dam ;  many  of  which  were  directly 
or  indirectly  traceable  to  this  same  long  and  angu 
lar  boatman,  their  present  fellow-citizen,  Abraham 
Lincoln. 

There  had  been  the  vanquishing  of  Clary 's  Grove 
boys  and  their  subsequent  allegiance  to  New  Salem ; 
there  had  been  the  sojourn  of  the  somewhat  inscrut 
able  stranger  with  bronze  hair,  an  anomalous  com 
posite  of  dandy  and  millhand;  there  had  been  the 
love  affair  of  the  stranger  and  Sylvia  Hall,  with  its 
baffling  issue.  More  interesting  than  these  things 
was  the  disappearance  of  John  McNeill,  lover  of 
Ann  Rutledge,  affording  opportunity  for  intermina 
ble  speculations  about  the  cause  of  his  departure — 
his  reasons  had  long  since  been  rejected — the  proba 
bilities  of  his  return  and  the  exact  present  and 
prospective  status  of  Abraham  Lincoln  if  he  should 

112 


Love  and  Fear  113 

or  should  not  return;  problems  that  were  pecu 
liarly  compensating  and  satisfying  to  the  soul  as 
being  utterly  beyond  the  possibility  of  conjectural 
solution. 

Within  the  week  the  community  had  been  enter 
tained  by  the  vanishing  of  Denton  Offutt,  hopelessly 
bankrupt  and  a  fugitive  from  his  creditors ;  an  exit 
beautifully  in  harmony  with  the  career  of  that  ver 
satile  and  voluble  financier.  This  had  led  to  further 
excitement.  Abraham  Lincoln,  the  clerk,  having 
demonstrated  to  himself  and  his  employer  that  his 
greatest  opportunities  in  life  did  not  lie  in  merchan 
dising,  and  being  stirred  to  ambition  by  the  popu 
larity  which  was  forced  upon  him  by  the  neighbor 
hood,  had  come  out,  in  a  neat  circular,  for  the 
legislature. 

The  startling  feature  of  his  candidacy  was  that 
he  stoutly  proclaimed  himself  a  Clay  man  and  a 
Whig,  in  a  district  that  was  violently  Jackson  and 
Democratic.  His  stand  for  the  principles  of  the 
"American  System"  doomed  him,  declared  the  wise 
ones  of  the  settlement.  Perhaps  he  thought  so  him 
self,  for  he  wrote  in  the  conclusion  of  his  circular: 
"If  the  good  people,  in  their  wisdom,  shall  see  fit  to 
keep  me  in  the  background,  I  have  been  too  familiar 
with  disappointments  to  be  very  much  chagrined." 

One  source  of  strength  there  was,  however,  in 
the  "American  System."  The  American  System, 
standing  for  internal  improvements  among  other 
things,  implied  making  the  Sangamon  River  naviga- 


114  A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

ble.  This  principle  Lincoln  promulgated  and  empha 
sized  ;  and  in  this  he  was  f  atefully  opportune,  for  it 
was  this  very  thing  that  was  the  cause  of  the  agita 
tion  that  brought  all  New  Salem  tingling  to  the  banks 
of  the  river  by  Cameron's  dam  on  this  morning  in 
April. 

For  there,  chugging  and  chooting  back  and  forth 
in  the  back-water  pond  above  the  dam,  was  a  steam 
boat,  constructed  of  wood  and  iron,  as  a  steamboat 
should  be,  with  clanking,  clanging,  groaning,  wheez 
ing  inward  parts  that  propelled  it  through  the  virgin 
waters  of  the  Sangamon  Eiver  in  a  manner  fitting 
and  appropriate  to  such  a  craft. 

It  was  the  steamer  Talisman,  brought  all  the  way 
from  the  Ohio  Kiver  by  a  zealous  advocate  of 
internal  improvements  to  demonstrate  that  the  river 
could  afford  passage  to  steam  vessels  as  high  as 
Springfield.  It  had  gone  up  to  that  place  on  the 
flood  waters  in  triumph.  Keturning,  it  had  been 
brought  low  in  its  pride  by  the  little  dam  at  New 
Salem,  and  was  scolding  and  fuming  about  it  as 
befitted  the  occasion,  having  no  more  honor  left  than 
a  flat-boat.  All  the  town  was  down  to  see  it. 

There  were  the  merchants  and  farmers,  the  smith 
and  the  carpenters — New  Salem  had  two  joiners 
now — the  tinner  and  the  hatter,  other  increments  to 
the  community;  the  housewives  and  the  swarms  of 
children,  many  of  them  also  increments;  the  young 
men  and  the  maids,  just  as  there  had  been  the  year 
before;  excepting,  specifically,  that  the  sisters  Hall 


Love  and  Fear  115 

were  not  there;  that  no  stranger  with  brown  eyes 
came  riding  on  a  roan  charger  to  raise  their  hair 
with  his  cool  daring,  and  that  the  lover  who  stood  by 
the  side  of  Ann  Eutledge  was  not  John  McNeill,  but 
an  exceedingly  tall  and  angular  young  man  with 
deep  set,  sad  blue  eyes  and  a  face  that  would  have 
been  ugly  had  it  not  been  for  a  benign  light  that 
shone  through  it. 

But  New  Salem  was  disappointed  on  this  morn 
ing.  The  novelty  of  the  sight  of  the  steamer  had 
worn  off  early  in  its  sojourn  in  the  mill  pond.  There 
was  nothing  picturesque  or  exhilarating  in  the  peril 
in  which  she  was  placed.  There  was  no  tall  and 
angular  boatman  in  her  crew  to  entertain  them  with 
stories  and  repartee.  And  the  manner  of  her  even 
tual  escape  did  not  fire  the  imagination  and  stir 
the  soul. 

For  those  who  had  the  Talisman  in  charge  re 
sorted  to  the  purely  physical  and  prosaic  device  of 
tearing  a  hole  in  the  dam  to  permit  her  passage 
down  stream,  first  settling  roundly  with  old  John 
Cameron  for  the  prospective  damage.  A  principle 
was  at  stake ;  and  a  principle  must  not  be  deterred 
or  impeded  in  its  progress  by  facts  or  the  laws  of 
man,  nature,  or  God. 

Long  before  the  demolition  was  completed  and 
the  boat  safe  below  the  dam,  interest  in  the  proceed 
ings  began  to  wTane,  and  the  people  of  New  Salem 
set  back  toward  their  village  in  a  slowly  drifting  cur 
rent,  disappointed  and  unsatisfied,  to  gather  in 


116          A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

knots  in  the  street,  hungry  for  something  with  which 
to  appease  the  appetites  whetted  by  the  promise  of 
adventure  held  out  when  the  Talisman  was  first 
heard  chooting  and  chugging  in  the  mill  pond. 

Abraham  Lincoln,  shambling  flat-footed  up  the 
hill  with  Ann  Rutledge,  left  her  at  the  tavern  and 
wandered  to  the  groups  standing  about  the  streets. 
Joining  them,  he  read  the  signs  of  the  hour.  He 
knew  the  psychological  moment  was  at  hand  for  a 
bit  of  politics.  He  passed  a  group  of  his  closest 
friends.  He  began  to  talk.  He  talked  about  the 
navigability  of  the  river;  about  the  American  Sys 
tem  in  general;  about  Clay,  about  Jackson;  he  re 
verted  to  local  matters  and  diverged  upon  State 
politics;  he*  gather  about  him  a  larger  group;  he 
talked  in  a  voice  louder  and  louder  as  the  group 
grew. 

"Speech!"  shouted  William  Munson. 

' '  Speech !  Speech ! ' '  shouted  ' '  Slicky  Bill ' '  Green. 

"Speech!  Speech!  Speech!"  shouted  everybody. 

Somebody  brought  a  keg  for  him  to  stand  upon. 
Haft  a  dozen  shoved  him  toward  it,  and  upon  it. 
"Speech!  Speech!"  they  shouted.  "Abe  Lincoln! 
Abe  Lincoln !  Speech !  Speech !  Speech ! ' ' 

"Gentlemen  and  fellow  citizens,"  he  began;  "I 
presume  you  know  who  I  am.  I  am  humble  Abra 
ham  Lincoln" — "Humble  hell!"  shouted  a  Jackson 
man.  The  sad  grey  eyes  wandered  toward  him. 
"My  politics  are  short  and  sweet,  like  the  old 
woman's  dance,"  proceeded  the  candidate.  "I  am 


Love  and  Fear  117 

in  favor  of  the  internal  improvement  system  and  a 
high  protective  tariff — "  "  High  way  robbery,"  bel 
lowed  the  Jackson  man.  The  quiet  grey  eyes  were 
fixed  for  a  moment  on  him.  The  quiet  grey  eyes  saw 
William  Munson  edging  toward  the  interloper  in 
belligerent  attitude. 

"My  fellow  citizens,"  he  proceeded;  "I  may  not 
live  to  see  it,  but  give  us  a  protective  tariff  and  we 
will  have  the  greatest  country  on  the  face  of  the 
earth!" 

'  *  Give  you  a  rope  to  hang  yourself ! ' '  roared  the 
Jackson  man. 

There  was  terrific  commotion  in  the  vicinity  of 
the  Democratic  partisan.  William  Munson  had  ar 
rived  at  his  side,  and  laid  hands  upon  him  at  the 
latest  interruption.  The  air  was  filled  with  swinging 
fists,  grunts,  curses,  the  sound  of  blows.  Munson 
went  down.  The  other,  astride  of  him,  pounded  his 
head  with  clenched  fists. 

The  grey  eyes  saw.  Lincoln  left  the  keg.  He 
churned  his  way  through  the  delighted  spectators. 
He  laid  one  hand  upon  the  neck  of  the  Jackson  man 
and  the  other  upon  the  back  of  his  clothing  where  he 
knelt  over  his  fallen  foe.  Swinging  him  like  a  sack 
in  his  pendulous  arms,  he  flung  him  spraddling  over 
the  heads  of  the  crowd,  a  dozen  feet  away,  where  he 
fell  in  a  heap  and  was  swiftly  possessed,  still  in  a 
heap,  by  Munson  and  Slicky  Bill. 

"Fellow  citizens,"  said  Lincoln,  resuming  his 
keg  and  his  speech,  "I  have  spoken  as  I  thought.  I 


118          A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

may  be  wrong  in  regard  to  any  or  all  of  the  matters 
I  advocate;  but  I  hold  it  a  sound  maxim  that  it  is 
better  only  sometimes  to  be  right  than  at  all  times 
wrong.  My  case  is  thrown  exclusively  on  the  inde 
pendent  voters  of  the  country.  If  elected,  I  shall  be 
thankful ;  if  not,  it  will  be  all  the  same ! ' ' 

Mighty  cheers  arose  from  the  throats  of  his 
audience.  He  was  a  despised  Whig ;  but  first  of  all 
he  was  Abe  Lincoln,  and  they  cheered  wildly  and 
long. 

"Cheer,  you  condemned  Democrat!"  shouted 
Slicky  Bill  Green  to  the  Jackson  man,  still  in  a  heap 
on  the  edge  of  the  crowd,  grinding  his  face  into  the 
soil  of  New  Salem  with  his  elbow.  Munson,  sitting 
on  the  man's  legs,  jounced  up  and  down  vigorously 
by  way  of  persuading  him. 

* '  Hurrah ! ' '  growled  the  man. 

* '  Cheer  for  Honest  Abe  Lincoln !  And  be  happy 
about  it ! "  persisted  Slicky  Bill. 

"Hurrah  for  Honest  Abe  Lincoln,"  repeated  the 
man,  with  a  lack  of  spontaneity  and  enthusiasm 
highly  unsatisfactory  to  Slicky  Bill. 

To  what  further  devices  Green  would  have  re 
sorted  for  the  purpose  of  restoring  the  man's  spirits 
and  obtaining  the  proper  ring  of  acclaiming  joy  in 
his  cheering  voice  will  forever  remain  unknown,  for 
before  he  had  set  about  putting  them  into  execution 
he  was  diverted  by  an  excited  uproar  in  the  skirts  of 
the  howling  gathering,  followed  by  a  tense  hush.  He 


Love  and  Fear  119 

arose  to  his  feet,  William  Munson  with  him,  and  per 
mitted  the  Democrat  to  assume  a  natural  position. 

A  man  on  a  horse  that  puffed  and  foamed  from 
hard  riding  was  waving  a  large  sheet  of  paper  in  his 
hand.  The  man  was  ferociously  accoutred  with  a 
sword  and  a  brace  of  pistols  sticking  through  his 
belt,  and  was  struggling  with  an  oppressive  sense  of 
importance. 

"Hear  ye!  Hear  ye!  Hear  ye!"  he  shouted, 
waving  the  paper  frantically.  "Citizens  of  New 
Salem,  I  bring  you  a  message  from  your  Governor, 
John  C.  Eeynolds;  listen  to  his  warning!" 

There  was  not  a  sound  among  them.  Surely, 
New  Salem  had  much  to  be  grateful  for ! 

"To  the  militia  of  the  southwest  section  of  the 
State, ' '  read  the  man,  rolling  his  eyes  from  his  docu 
ment  to  his  audience  and  back  again  at  every  pause. 
' '  Fellow  citizens :  Your  country  requires  your  serv 
ices.  The  Indians  have  assumed  a  hostile  attitude 
and  have  invaded  the  state  in  violation  of  the 
treaty  of  last  summer.  The  British  band  of  Sacs  and 
other  hostile  Indians,  headed  by  Black  Hawk,  are  in 
possession  of  the  Rock  Eiver  country,  to  the  great 
terror  of  the  frontier  inhabitants.  I  consider  the 
settlers  on  the  frontier  to  be  in  imminent  danger. 
In  possession  of  the  above  facts  and  information,  I 
have  not  hesitated  as  to  the  course  I  should  pursue. 
No  citizen  ought  to  remain  inactive  when  his  country 
is  invaded  and  the  helpless  part  of  the  community  in 
danger.  I  have  called  out  a  strong  detachment  of 


120          A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

militia  to  rendezvous  at  Beardstown  on  the  22d 
instant.  Provisions  for  the  men  and  food  for  the 
horses  will  be  furnished  in  abundance.  I  hope  my 
countrymen  will  realize  my  expectations  and  offer 
their  services  as  heretofore,  with  promptitude  and 
cheerfulness,  in  defense  of  their  country.  (Signed) 
John  C.  Eeynolds,  Governor  of  the  State  of 
Illinois." 

Wheeling  his  horse,  the  courier  disappeared  at 
dramatic  speed  before  his  fellow  citizens  could  col 
lect  themselves  for  one  word.  The  men  of  New  Salem 
stared  at  each  other  blankly,  with  wide  eyes.  One 
by  one,  with  a  common  instinct,  they  looked  at 
Abraham  Lincoln. 

Slicky  Bill  made  his  way  to  Lincoln's  side. 
"What  shall  we  do  about  it,  Abe?"  he  asked, 
helplessly. 

"Well,  I  can't  answer  for  the  rest  of  you," 
returned  Lincoln,  looking  down  into  the  faces  turned 
toward  him,  "but  I'll  tell  you  what  I'm  going  to  do. 
I'm  going  to  leave  for  Beardstown  to-morrow  morn 
ing,  if  I  can  get  a  nag.  If  I  can 't,  I  '11  go  anyway. ' ' 

"By  cracky,  Abe,  I'll  go  with  you!"  exclaimed 
Green,  suddenly  inspired. 

So  would  they  all  go  with  him !  They  proclaimed 
as  much  in  a  babel  of  voices !  The  excitement  broke 
forth  in  a  buzzing  confusion!  They  talked,  they 
laughed,  they  shouted,  they  swore.  Presently  they 
dispersed  and  ran  frantically  to  their  several  homes 
to  break  the  news  and  prepare  for  the  expedition. 


Love  and  Fear  121 

The  utmost  that  New  Salem  had  been  through  in 
its  short  history  was  as  an  old  woman's  tale  to  the 
excitement  and  turmoil  that  agitated  the  settlement 
that  night.  The  wildest  rumors  of  the  Indian  upris 
ing  flew  from  house  to  house.  The  women  ran  bare 
headed  to  tell  that  Black  Hawk  was  at  the  head  of  a 
conspiracy  belittling  Pontiac's;  that  he  came  with 
thousands  of  Indians  from  the  Western  plains ;  that 
an  English  army  was  marching  from  Green  Bay  to 
cooperate  with  him,  and  many  other  stories  of  like 
import.  "Wives  wept  on  the  shoulders  of  husbands 
going  forth  to  danger ;  young  men  made  it  the  occa 
sion  for  intimate  and  personal  confessions  long  con 
templated,  and  the  entire  community  conducted 
itself  as  a  community  should  that  believes  itself  to 
be  on  the  threshold  of  a  long  and  bloody  war. 

Abraham  Lincoln  was  not  oppressed  by  a  sense 
of  the  momentous  solemnity  of  the  hour.  He  looked 
upon  it  as  serious ;  he  was  sober  in  his  discussion  of 
it ;  but  he  had  heard  much  of  Black  Hawk  from  his 
friend  Randolph,  and  believed  that  he  was  not  the 
bloodthirsty  and  abandoned  savage  that  rumor 
made  him  out  to  be.  He  even  felt  that  actual  con 
flict  might  have  been  averted,  and  might  still  be. 
Ann  Butledge  shared  his  view  of  the  situation;  she 
shared  most  of  his  views  now.  As  they  sat  together 
in  the  deserted  dining  room  of  the  tavern  after  the 
supper  had  been  cleared  away,  which  was  the  only 
place  where  they  could  be  alone,  they  talked  of 
other  things. 


122  A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

They  talked  of  the  time  when  he  should  return 
from  the  war.  They  planned  for  the  years  to  come, 
without  one  thought  that  he  might  not  come  back. 
He  had  his  way  to  make  before  they  could  carry  out 
their  plans  together.  Together  they  planned  the 
making  of  the  way.  If  he  should  be  elected  in  the 
summer,  their  plans  would  be  hastened.  They  did 
not  delude  themselves  with  the  high  hope  of  that, 
however.  If  he  should  not  be  elected,  he  would  go 
to  Springfield  and  study  law.  In  the  course  of  three 
or  four  or  five  years,  they  could  be  married — if 
McNeill  should  not  return  meanwhile. 

Always  there  was  that  between  the  two.  Deserted 
as  she  had  apparently  been  by  him,  and  loving  her 
brave  and  generous  sweetheart  as  she  did,  she  never 
theless  could  not  rid  her  mind  of  a  sense  of  obliga 
tion  toward  her  former  lover.  She  had  given  her 
word  to  him.  If  he  came  to  claim  the  forfeit,  she 
would  fulfill  it,  for  the  good  of  her  soul.  Such  was 
her  supersensitive  conscientiousness.  In  her  heart 
she  prayed  he  would  not;  in  her  heart  she  dreaded 
lest  he  should. 

Understanding  this  with  an  insight  keener  than 
a  woman's ;  knowing  her  fear  and  the  torture  of  it  to 
her;  patient,  magnanimous,  considerate,  Abraham 
Lincoln  gave  her  what  courage  he  could.  He  did  not 
speak  of  love  as  they  sat  there  alone.  He  did  not 
try  to  dispel  her  doubts.  It  was  a  struggle  within 
her  own  soul;  her  own  soul  must  prosecute  it  to  a 


Love  and  Fear  123 

conclusion.  Like  a  tender  friend,  shielding  her  from 
every  shock  he  could  forfend,  thoughtful  only  of  her 
peace  of  mind,  utterly  devoted  to  her  happiness,  sac 
rificing  his  own  pride,  laying  bare  his  own  sensitive 
nature,  he  was  willing  to  await  the  time  and  abide 
by  the  outcome.  He  loved  her,  and  would  con 
tinue  to  love  her.  More  than  that  he  could  not  do 
for  her. 

And  so  that  night  they  talked  of  their  plans, 
always  predicated  upon  the  "if,"  the  dread  possi 
bility  that  gnawed  into  her  soul.  When  their  future 
was  before  them  and  the  other  was  hidden,  she  was 
joyous,  and  the  face  of  Lincoln  glowed  with  a  serene 
happiness  that  made  it  a  thing  of  beauty,  rough  and 
homely  as  it  was.  When  her  thoughts  turned  back 
to  the  dread  present  again,  as  they  always  did,  joy 
went  from  her,  and  a  look  of  ineffable  sadness  came 
into  the  patient  blue  eyes  of  her  lover. 

Thus  it  was  between  them  when  he  arose  from 
the  table  at  last  to  bid  her  farewell;  there  could  be 
no  farewell  between  them  on  the  morrow.  Thus  it 
was  between  them  when  he  bent  over  her  and  kissed 
her  full  on  the  lips.  Thus  it  was  between  them  when 
she  looked  up  into  his  eyes  through  her  tears,  and 
smiled  upon  him  a  smile  over  which  was  the  shadow 
of  dread,  the  ghost  of  fear. 

On  the  morrow  he  road  away  to  the  war,  with 
those  others  who  went  from  New  Salem.  At  the  end 
of  the  village  he  turned  for  the  last  time  to  wave 


124  A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

farewell  to  her,  where  she  stood  before  her  father's 
door,  ere  he  passed  from  sight.  As  he  turned  his 
face  again  to  the  West  the  look  of  sadness  was  deep 
within  his  eyes. 


CHAPTER  IX 

CANT-HOOKS  AND  CAPTAINS 

IN  THE  beginning,  it  was  a  lark  for  the  boys  of 
New  Salem  to  set  out  on  a  chase  after  Black 
Hawk.  There  was  a  vivifying  sense  of  freedom  and 
irresponsibility  in  getting  on  a  horse  and  riding 
across  a  new  country  with  a  company  of  boon  com 
panions.  There  was  novelty.  There  was  adventure. 
There  was  a  flavor  of  danger  about  it.  The  recruits 
from  New  Salem  made  merry  as  they  rode  toward 
Richland,  their  first  camp,  on  that  morning  in  April. 

As  reckless  and  roistering  as  any,  Abraham  Lin 
coln  rode  among  them,  joining  in  their  rough  play, 
bandying  jokes  with  them,  telling  them  stories,  tuss 
ling  with  them  from  the  back  of  his  horse  and  other 
wise  deporting  himself  like  an  exuberant  youth  with 
great  animal  strength  in  his  arms,  though  with  some 
thing  in  his  mind  which  he  would  forget.  With 
laughter  and  shouts  he  rode  among  them;  but 
through  all  his  laughter  and  his  shouting  there  was 
a  deep  sadness  at  the  bottoms  of  his  grey  eyes.  The 
dread  of  her  dread  was  upon  him. 

''Abe,  how  would  you  like  to  be  captain  of  this 
shebang?"  cried  Slicky  Bill,  riding  alongside  of  him 
early  in  the  march. 

"Well,  Slicky,  I  should  like,  of  course  I  should 

125 


126          A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

like  it,  if  the  boys  want  to  make  me  captain,"  re 
turned  Lincoln.  "Nobody  could  be  insensible  of  the 
honor. ' ' 

"Good!"  cried  Slicky.  "Old  Bill  Kirkpatrick 
wants  it.  The  boys  don't  like  him,  but  they  are 
afraid  of  him,  'cause  he's  so  rich.  What  if  he  is  the 
richest  man  in  Sangamon  county!"  went  on  Green, 
with  fire.  "I  guess  this  is  a  free  country,  and  we 
don't  have  to  knuckle  down  to  no  goldarned  rich 
fellers!" 

"Now,  see  here,  Bill,"  rejoined  Lincoln,  with 
sudden  animation.  "I  hadn't  cared  overmuch  about 
being  captain  until  you  told  me  that  old  Kirkpatrick 
wanted  it ;  but  now  I  wish  you  would  elect  me,  if  you 
could.  I'll  tell  you  why.  Did  I  ever  tell  you  about 
Kirkpatrick  and  the  cant-hook?" 

No,  he  never  had. 

"Well,  when  I  first  came  to  this  country,"  went 
on  Lincoln,  "I  got  work  with  Kirkpatrick  to  roll 
some  logs.  He  didn't  have  a  cant-hook,  so  he  said 
he'd  get  one.  Now,  a  cant-hook  costs  two  dollars, 
Bill,  and  I  made  a  proposal  to  Kirkpatrick.  I  told 
him  that  if  he  would  give  me  the  two  dollars,  I 
would  move  the  logs  without  a  hook.  He  agreed, 
and  I  did  move  them,  with  a  bar  and  a  piece  of  rope. 
Bill,  when  he  came  to  pay  me  off  he  did  not  give  me 
that  two  dollars,  and  he  never  has.  If  you  boys 
could  elect  me  captain  I'd  be  willing  to  call  it  square, 
and  to  tell  him  so. ' ' 


Cant-Hooks  and  Captains  127 

"By  hen,  I'll  fix  him!"  ejaculated  Green,  highly 
indignant ;  and  immediately  went  about  doing  it. 

This  is  how  he  did  it:  The  election  was  on  the 
following  morning.  The  two  candidates  stood  apart. 
The  men  were  told  to  fall  in  line  behind  their  favor 
ite.  A  howling,  tumbling  mob  broke  in  Lincoln's 
direction.  When  the  ballots  had  subsided  sufficiently 
for  inspection,  the  line  behind  Honest  Abe  was  thrice 
the  length  of  the  one  behind  Kirkpatrick. 

"Cant-hook!  Cant-hook!"  shouted  the  Lincoln 
supporters,  while  the  towering  militia  captain  looked 
blandly  upon  Kirkpatrick,  sputtering  in  his  wrath. 

"I  swear,  Bill,"  said  Lincoln,  confidentially  to 
Slicky,  when  they  were  on  the  march.  "It's  a  fine 
thing  to  be  captain,  but  how  under  Heaven  do  you 
do  it?" 

Bill  didn't  know,  but  suggested  for  the  comfort 
of  his  friend  that  probably  nobody  else  did,  and 
that  therefore  he  could  not  make  any  palpable  blun 
ders  in  the  manual.  Lincoln  took  courage  there 
from,  and  marched  at  the  head  of  his  command  with 
a  serene  confidence  in  fate. 

Fate  presently  presented  itself  in  the  form  of  a 
narrow  gate  in  a  fence,  through  which  the  files  of 
the  company  could  not  possibly  pass  abreast.  Lin 
coln,  seeing  it  at  a  distance,  pulled  Slicky  Bill  by  the 
sleeve  and  pointed  to  it. 

"What '11  I  tell  'em?  What '11  I  tell  'em,  Bill?" 
he  asked,  under  his  breath.  "What's  the  proper 
command  to  get  'em  to  go  endwise?" 


128  A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

'  *  Hanged  if  I  know ! ' '  replied  Bill,  perplexed. 

"Men!"  shouted  Lincoln,  for  they  were  at  the 
fence;  "this  company  is  dismissed  for  two  minutes, 
when  it  will  fall  in  on  the  other  side  of  the  gate ! ' ' 

Narrow  gates  in  fences  were  not  the  only  em 
barrassments  of  his  new  office.  He  found  it  difficult 
to  obtain  from  the  men  the  necessary  respect  for  his 
military  authority  without  forfeiting  their  personal 
regard  for  himself.  They  were  a  wild,  irreverent  lot 
of  fellows  at  best,  on  whom  all  restraint  sat  lightly. 
To  be  under  the  absolute  direction  of  one  of  their 
own  number;  to  receive  orders  from  an  old  chum 
and  to  obey  them  with  a  straight  face ;  to  look  upon 
his  office  as  anything  more  than  an  amusing  for 
mality  and  a  joke  on  Kirkpatrick,  was  incompatible 
with  their  principles  of  liberty  and  their  sense  of 
the  fitness  of  things. 

It  became  necessary  for  Lincoln  to  make  them 
realize  that  he  was  commander  and  to  preserve  his 
dignity  without  arousing  their  dislike.  In  this  task 
the  strength  of  his  arms,  which  he  was  always  able 
to  exert  with  a  smile  on  his  face  and  mildness  in  his 
eye,  did  much.  His  patience,  tact,  good  humor  and 
presence  of  mind  did  more.  Only  once  was  he  openly 
defied.  Early  in  his  command  a  private  suggested 
that  he  go  to  the  devil  when  he  issued  a  command. 
It  brought  up  a  point  of  military  etiquette  and  disci 
pline  which  was  settled  immediately  and  perma 
nently. 

Another  time  indirect  disobedience  brought  trou- 


Cant-Hooks  and  Captains  129 

ble  upon  him.  Some  of  his  men  found  where  the 
whisky  of  the  expedition  was  kept,  and  stole  some 
of  it.  In  the  morning  part  of  his  command  could 
not  march.  He  was  blamed,  and  suffered  punish 
ment  vicariously  for  his  men.  All  day  he  was  obliged 
to  carry  a  wooden  sword  in  his  hand.  The  time  was 
to  come  when  he  was  to  carry  a  much  more  griev 
ous  burden  through  the  faults  of  his  countrymen, 
and  with  the  same  forbearance  and  good-tempered 
patience  that  he  exhibited  on  that  day. 

He  himself  was  not  entirely  schooled  in  the  strict 
requirements  of  military  discipline.  He  himself 
transgressed  on  one  occasion,  and  suffered  for  it. 
An  order  was  issued  that  there  should  be  no  firing  of 
arms  within  a  hundred  yards  of  the  camp,  for  obvi 
ous  reasons  involving  the  public  safety.  One  night 
he  discharged  his  pistol  in  camp,  that  being  the  only 
method  of  unloading  it.  For  this  he  was  rebuked 
and  deprived  of  his  sword  for  a  day.  It  was  his 
last  offense. 

The  militia  marched  from  the  rendezvous  at 
Beardstown  toward  the  Yellow  Banks,  on  the  Mis 
sissippi,  where  they  were  to  receive  supplies  to  be 
forwarded  from  Jefferson  Barracks  by  water.  The 
holiday  spirit  of  the  expedition  continued  on  the 
march.  Even  the  crossing  of  the  swollen  and  turbu 
lent  Henderson  River,  effected  by  means  of  a  raft 
and  an  old  leaky  boat,  was  a  lark,  accompanied  by 
much  unnecessary  splashing  and  wetting  of  clothes. 

The  enthusiasm  lasted  until  they  reached  Yellow 


130          A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

Banks.  It  was  so  high  that  when  the  New  Salem 
company  and  another  company  both  desired  the 
same  spot  for  a  camp,  a  contest  was  arranged  to 
determine  which  should  have  it.  The  New  Salem 
boys,  having  Lincoln's  prowess  in  mind,  suggested 
that  a  champion  from  each  company  wrestle  for 
choice.  The  other  company,  having  in  mind  a  giant 
among  them,  by  name  Dow  Thompson,  accepted  the 
challenge. 

The  entire  army  came  to  see  the  fun.  All  the 
money  and  detachable  property  of  the  soldiers  was 
wagered  on  the  result.  The  champions  were  pro 
duced.  They  grappled.  In  a  moment  Lincoln  looked 
over  his  antagonist's  shoulder  at  his  friends. 

"This  is  the  most  powerful  man  I  ever  had  hold 
of,"  he  said.  "He  will  throw  me  and  you  will  lose 
your  all  unless  I  act  on  the  defensive. ' ' 

In  another  moment  Lincoln  went  down,  bringing 
the  other  with  him. 

"Dog-fall!  Dog-fall!"  screamed  Slicky  Bill 
Green,  jumping  into  the  air  and  waving  his  hat. 
"That  don't  count.  Try  it  again,  Abe!  You  can 
throw  him ! ' ' 

"Fair  fall!  Fair  fall!"  shouted  Thompson's 
supporters. 

Instantly  the  two  factions  charged  each  other. 

*  *  Hold  on,  boys ! ' '  cried  Lincoln,  running  between 
them.  * '  Give  up  your  bets ! ' ' — to  his  friends — * '  if  he 
has  not  thrown  me  fairly,  he  could ! ' ' 

Peace  was  restored.    It  was  the  first  and  the  last 


Cant-Hooks  and  Captains  131 

time  that  Lincoln  was  ever  vanquished  in  wrestling. 
It  was  not  the  first  or  the  last  time  that  he  sacrificed 
his  personal  pride  by  surrendering  non-essentials 
for  the  sake  of  peace.  It  was  not  the  first  or  the  last 
time  that  his  sense  of  proportion,  his  gift  of  perspec 
tive,  his  grasp  of  the  relative  importance  of  things, 
made  compromise  with  his  own  interests  for  the 
general  welfare. 

The  spirit  of  the  militia  underwent  rapid  trans 
formation  at  Yellow  Banks.  The  provisions  did  not 
arrive  from  Jefferson  Barracks.  The  men  grew 
hungry.  There  was  nothing  for  them  to  do  but  drill. 
They  became  restless,  refused  to  obey  their  officers, 
grumbled,  fell  to  talking  about  going  home,  and  they 
grew  mutinous. 

It  was  Lincoln  who  saved  them.  Lincoln,  with  his 
droll  stories ;  Lincoln,  with  his  farcical  pranks ;  Lin 
coln,  with  his  sympathetic  good  nature,  his  humor 
ous  point  of  view,  his  optimism.  He  submerged  the 
officer  in  the  man.  He  relinquished  the  man  for  the 
buffoon.  He  turned  clown.  He  made  them  laugh. 
Those  who  laugh  cannot  mutiny.  They  forgot  their 
grievances.  They  plucked  up  their  spirits.  The  pro 
visions  arrived,  and  they  set  off  for  Fort  Armstrong 
at  the  mouth  of  the  Eock  River  in  picnic  mood  again. 

There  they  joined  the  forces  under  General 
Atkinson,  the  "White  Beaver. "  With  General 
Atkinson  was  a  colonel  of  the  regular  army,  com 
manding  four  hundred  men  from  Forts  Leaven- 
worth  and  Crawford;  a  bluff,  rugged  colonel.  His 


132          A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

name  was  Zachary  Taylor.  Under  Colonel  Taylor 
was  a  certain  second  lieutenant.  He  was  not  then 
present.  He  had  been  away  on  furlough;  he  was 
hastening  to  rejoin  his  command,  voluntarily.  His 
name  was  Jefferson  Davis. 

The  army  set  out  on  Black  Hawk's  trail,  which 
led  up  the  right  bank  of  the  Eock  River.  The 
mounted  volunteers,  under  General  Whiteside  and 
Governor  Reynolds,  marched  along  the  banks  of  the 
river,  through  the  mud,  over  prairies,  among  dark, 
damp  woods.  General  Atkinson  was  with  them. 
Colonel  Taylor  with  his  regulars  and  three  hundred 
unmounted  militia  followed  in  boats. 

They  came  to  Prophetstown.  The  Indians  had 
burned  it,  and  gone  on.  They  reached  Dixon's  ferry, 
kept  by  John  Dixon,  an  old  resident,  who  had  always 
maintained  friendly  relations  with  the  Indians. 
Isaiah  Stillman  and  David  Bailey  were  there  with 
militia  from  the  northern  part  of  the  State,  im 
patient  to  strike  the  Hawk. 

Lincoln,  sauntering  to  Dixon's  tavern,  where  his 
company  was  mustering,  encountered  a  handsome 
young  man  with  hair  of  bronze  and  brown  eyes. 

1 '  Well,  howdy,  Randolph ! "  he  said.  * '  You  here  ? ' ' 

1  'Hello,  Abraham!  I'm  glad  to  see  you!"  re 
turned  Randolph. 

''How  about  this,  Randolph?"  Lincoln  asked, 
when  they  had  exchanged  further  words  of  greeting. 
"Is  there  going  to  be  a  fight?  Where  is  Black 
Hawk?" 


Cant-Hooks  and  Captains  133 

" There  need  not  have  been  a  fight,''  returned 
Randolph.  "The  Hawk  did  not  come  to  make  trou 
ble.  I  have  talked  with  him.  He  only  wants  to  make 
corn  among  the  Winnebagos.  He  came  to  plant  on 
his  old  territory.  He  brought  all  the  women  and 
children  with  him.  The  poor  old  fellow  believes  that 
he  is  right.  He  thinks  he  has  been  badly  treated. 
He  does  not  want  war. ' ' 

"You  say  you  have  seen  him?" 

'  *  Yes ;  I  went  to  Prophetstown.  He  received  me 
well.  He  was  friendly.  He  may  have  erred;  he  is 
stubborn;  but  he  is  honest,  and  does  not  want  to 
fight.  He  has  passed  on  into  Wisconsin,  I  expect,  to 
join  the  Winnebagos." 

"Will  they  help  him  if  it  comes  to  war?" 

"I  presume  they  do  not  know  that  themselves," 
Randolph  made  answer. 

Lincoln  was  silent.  The  sadness  came  into  his 
eyes. 

"Randolph,"  he  said  at  length,  "we  may  be  tech 
nically  right  in  this  matter,  but  we  are  morally 
wrong.  Our  government  has  the  treaty  duly  signed, 
but  Black  Hawk  knows  that  it  has  not  been  fulfilled 
by  the  whites.  Furthermore,  the  old  chief  cannot 
forget  the  indignities  heaped  upon  his  band  by  the 
lawless  squatters,  who  were  thieves,  cut-throats, 
outlaws  from  the  civilized  communities  of  our  land. 
They  fringed  their  cabins  around  the  Indian's  reser 
vation  and  appropriated  the  Indian's  gardens.  They 


134  A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

burned  their  lodges.  They  beat  their  women  and 
children. ' ' 

1  'They  did  worse  that  that,"  remarked  Kan- 
dolph. 

"A  darky  may  stand  such  treatment  without 
turning  tail,"  Lincoln  went  on,  "but  an  Indian, 
never !  He'll  fight  until  he  dies  when  his  blood  is  up. 
The  Hawk  has  a  right  to  insist  on  the  fulfillment  by 
the  government  of  the  treaty.  He  cannot  forget  the 
violations  of  his  sacred  dead,  the  destruction  of  his 
ancient  home,  and  the  cruelty  to  his  women  and  chil 
dren.  The  fact  is,  the  whites  are  so  bitter  that  they 
cannot  regard  an  Indian  as  human — as  possessing 
any  more  rights  than  so  many  stones.  I  see  a 
bloody  fight  ahead  of  us,  and  we  shall  have  enough 
to  answer  for  if  we  survive  this  war. ' ' 

"I  am  as  unwilling  to  pursue  the  war  to  its  obvi 
ous  conclusion  as  anyone,"  said  Eandolph,  "but  it 
would  seem  that  there  is  no  alternative  now.  The 
Black  Hawk  is  stubborn;  the  white  are  fanatic!" 

"Affairs  need  never  have  reached  this  point," 
responded  Lincoln.  "I  think  this  is  a  case  where 
discretion  would  have  been  the  better  part  of  valor. 
Better  to  have  let  the  old  chief  die  in  his  ancestral 
home.  The  case  reminds  me  of  one  of  our  pioneer 
farmers  who  had  a  big  log  lying  in  the  middle  of  his 
field.  It  was  too  big  to  haul  away;  too  knotty  to 
split;  too  wet  and  soggy  to  burn.  One  Sunday  he 
told  his  neighbors  that  he  had  got  rid  of  the  log. 
'How  did  you  do  it?'  they  asked.  '"Well,  now,  boys> 


Cant-Hooks  and  Captains  135 

if  you  won't  tell  the  secret,  I'll  tell  you,'  answered 
the  farmer.  'I  just  plowed  around  it!'  " 

Another  silence  was  between  them.  Presently 
Lincoln  turned  toward  his  friend.  The  shadow  of 
sadness  had  gone  from  his  eyes.  They  were  filled 
with  gentle  sympathy.  He  laid  his  hand  on  Ran- 
dolph's  arm. 

"And  Sylvia?  How  about  Sylvia?"  he  said  with 
a  smile. 

Randolph  told  him  briefly  of  his  hasty  visit  at 
Indian  Creek.  "I  had  barely  a  word  with  her,"  he 
concluded. 

"You  did  not  show  her  the  letter?"  pursued 
Lincoln. 

Randolph  shook  his  head. 

"My  haste  was  too  great,"  he  said.  "I  felt  called 
upon  to  reach  Rock  River  without  delay.  I  felt  the 
time  was  not  fitting.  Perhaps  it  would  have  been 
better  if  I  had;  I  accomplished  nothing  by  coming 
here.  And  Ann  Rutledge  I "  he  went  on,  finding  Lin 
coln  made  no  response.  "Is  she  well,  and  happy?" 

A  shadow  came  over  the  face  of  the  other,  a 
heavy  shadow  of  grief  and  sadness. 

"Mortimer,  Mortimer,  she  is  not  happy!"  cried 
Lincoln.  In  his  emotion  his  voice  was  almost  a 
moan.  "I  love  her;  I  love  her  with  a  love  that  con 
sumes  !  I  think  she  loves  me.  She  thinks  she  does. 
She  is  certain  she  does.  But  there  is  a  horrible 
ghost  in  her  soul;  the  ghost  of  her  promise  to  that 
other  man.  In  the  honesty  and  sincerity  of  her 


136  A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

nature,  she  cannot  think  that  she  is  absolved  from 
that  by  his  leaving.  It  is  as  though  she  were  mar 
ried  to  him.  She  fears  he  will  return.  It  haunts  her 
love  for  me.  It  haunts  the  happiness  which  that  love 
would  bring  her.  It  lies  cold  and  contaminating 
within  her  heart. 

'  *  I  do  not  know !  I  do  not  know ! '  *  Tears  were  in 
his  eyes  as  he  went  on.  His  voice  was  low  and 
mournful.  ' 'I  think  she  is  wrong.  The  man  deceived 
her.  His  name  is  not  McNeill.  It  is  McNamar.  He 
told  her  he  had  to  hide  from  his  people  while  he 
made  his  beginning,  lest  they  follow  him  and  drag 
him  from  the  ladder  he  sought  to  climb  before  his 
feet  were  firm  upon  it.  Perhaps  he  did.  He  told  her 
he  would  come  back.  Perhaps  he  will.  I  do  not 
know !  He  writes  to  her,  but  his  letters  are  formal 
and  distant.  I  believe  she  would  be  justified  in  for 
saking  him,  but  the  ghost  is  in  her  soul,  and  she 
cannot  cast  it  out!" 

There  was  silence  for  a  moment.  The  unhappy 
man  raised  his  two  huge  clenched  fists  high  above 
his  head.  His  eyes  closed.  His  great  gaunt  frame 
quivered  with  emotion. 

" My  God!  My  God!"  he  moaned.  " It  is  killing 
her !  It  is  killing  her !  And  it  is  I  who  have  done 
it !  She  could  bear  it  if  I  had  not  brought  my  love 
to  her." 

His  upstretched  hands  unclasped.  He  lowered 
them,  burying  his  face  in  them.  "I  would  far  rather 
he  returned;  I  would  far  rather  see  them  wedded, 


Cant-Hooks  and  Captains  137 

than  that  this  ghost  should  so  devour  her  soul," 
he  said. 

A  silence  fell  upon  them.  The  hand  of  Kandolph 
crept  to  the  shoulder  of  his  friend  and  rested  there. 
For  a  moment  they  stood  so.  With  a  shudder  through 
his  whole  body,  Lincoln  struggled  into  self-control. 

* '  I  must  muster  in, ' '  he  said,  and  the  two  walked 
silently  toward  the  tavern,  where  Major  Eobert  An 
derson  was  swearing  in  the  militia  for  service  in  the 
United  States  Army. 


CHAPTER  X 
THE  FLAG  OF  TKUCE 

ISAAC  FRAKE,  having  by  virtue  of  swaggering 
self-assurance  become  captain  of  soldiery  in 
Major  Isaiah  Stillman's  command,  rode  in  the  midst 
of  his  men  with  many  brave  oaths,  vociferously  ex 
pounding  the  purpose  and  art  of  warfare  as  it  was 
at  that  time  conducted  by  himself  and  Stillman. 
Isaac  Frake,  captain  of  militia,  was  in  high  spirits. 
His  counsel  had  prevailed.  Major  Stillman,  with  his 
own  and  Major  Bailey's  militia,  was  on  the  way 
from  Dixon's  up  the  Rock  River  to  chastise  Black 
Hawk  and  disperse  his  band. 

It  mattered  little  to  Captain  Isaac  Frake  that  his 
counsel  had  prevailed,  because  the  soldiers,  on  the 
point  of  open  mutiny,  had  demanded  to  set  out  on  a 
punitive  expedition  without  more  delay  after  the 
arrival  of  Whiteside  at  Dixon's.  It  mattered  still 
less  that  the  mutiny  was  fostered  and  fomented  by 
himself  for  the  specific  purpose  which  it  had 
attained.  If  it  mattered  at  all  to  him,  it  was  a 
matter  of  pride. 

Isaac  Frake,  discussing  the  objects  of  war  as  he 
rode,  had  nothing  to  say  about  personal  revenge  as 
a  worthy  motive,  or  hatred  for  those  whom  one  has 
injured  and  fears,  or  the  expediency  in  removing 

138 


The  Flag  of  Truce  139 

from  the  scene  of  one's  future  home  Indians  to 
whom  one  has  been  a  neighbor,  and  who  might 
remember  incidents  and  circumstances  of  his  neigh- 
borliness  that  would  be  embarrassing  in  a  new  order 
of  things.  Neither  did  he  have  anything  to  say  con 
cerning  the  use  of  whiskey  in  strategy  and  tactics, 
and  the  opportunities  it  offered  for  subverting  the 
natural  instincts  of  the  red  men.  Nor  had  he  any 
thing  to  say  concerning  treachery  and  guile  in  any 
form. 

*  *  We  '11  show  the  old  fraud  what  it  is  to  defy  the 
United  States  Government!"  quoth  Frake,  vehe 
mently,  speaking  for  the  Government,  as  an  officer 
in  the  army.  "We  '11  show  him  that' when  an  Indian 
makes  a  treaty,  an  Indian  has  got  to  keep  the 
treaty!"  Speaking  for  the  Government,  Frake  was 
silent  about  the  keeping  of  treaties  with  the  Indians 
by  the  United  States.  "I  know  the  old' cuss,"  Frake 
went  on.  "I  didn't  live  next  him  for  two  years  for 
nothing.  Coming  to  make  corn,  is  he?  Why  don't 
he  make  corn  in  Iowa,  where  he  belongs  ?  What  does 
he  come  over  here  for?  Isn't  the  soil  good  enough 
for  him  there?  If  he  wants  to  plant,  why  does  he 
make  tracks  for  the  Winnebago  country  with  a  band 
of  warriors  I  Oh,  I  know  him ! ' ' 

Thus  said  Frake,  captain  of  militia,  as  he  rode 
forth  to  slay.  This,  and  much  more  of  like  purport, 
he  reiterated,  bouncing  along  with  his  men.  They 
echoed  him  approvingly.  As  an  officer  and  a  man 
of  sense,  they  believed  him.  Also,  they  were  in 


140  A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

complacent  temper.  They  were  gay.  They  were  out 
upon  a  picnic.  They  laughed  and  joked  roughly  such 
times  as  they  were  not  called  upon  to  listen  to  the 
dissertations  of  their  captain. 

One  among  them  was  silent,  one  who  was  not 
made  jubilant  at  the  prospect  of  killing  the  red 
skins.  Concerning  him  Frake  whispered  to  his  men 
as  they  rode:  "You  fellows  watch  that  man  Ran- 
dolph!  He  's  a  friend  of  the  Indians.  He  '11  play 
us  into  their  hands  if  he  gets  a  chance,  or  I  miss 
my  guess !  I  happen  to  know  something  about  him. 
And  I  happen  to  know  of  a  squaw  of  the  Sacs  who 
has  got  a  papoose  with  a  skin  altogether  too  white 
to  look  good  on  an  Indian ! ' ' 

Mortimer  Randolph,  riding  apart,  saw  the  angry 
looks  his  comrades  cast  upon  him.  Riding  alone, 
he  gave  them  no  heed. 

All  day  they  went  on  through  the  unbroken 
woods,  three  hundred  and  fifty  white  men,  laugh 
ing,  singing,  joking,  cursing,  awakening  the  silence 
of  the  waste  places  to  a  myriad  startled  echoes,  seal 
ing  the  throats  of  birds  with  terror,  making  the 
squirrels  cling  quivering  and  afraid  to  the  limbs  of 
the  high  oaks,  peeping  wide-eyed  upon  a  sight  they 
had  never  seen — all  day,  until  the  rays  of  the  after 
noon  sun  slanted  among  the  boles  of  the  trees  that 
clustered  along  the  fringe  of  Old  Man's  Creek. 

There  they  stopped  in  jubilant  mood ;  built  their 
camp  fires,  laughing  and  frolicking  with  one 
another;  fried  their  bacon  and  boiled  their  coffee 


The  Flag  of  Truce  141 

with  many  rude  jests;  they  smoked  their  pipes, 
lying  on  the  ground  beneath  the  trees  in  the  first 
twilight  of  the  May  evening;  and  there,  insolently 
defying  such  of  their  officers  as  tried  to  restrain 
them,  they  drank  deeply  out  of  many  black  bottles, 
roistering  and  carousing. 

Mortimer  Randolph  sat  apart  from  the  men  of 
Frake's  company,  of  which  chance  had  made  him 
one.  He  was  disturbed  and  anxious  concerning  the 
spirit  of  the  troops.  He  was  made  fearful  by  the 
black  bottles.  He  knew  they  would  soon  be  in  a 
temper  beyond  restraining,  and  that  Indians  were 
close  at  hand.  He  was  certain  in  his  own  mind  that 
Black  Hawk  would  not  fight  unless  forced  to  defend 
himself.  There  was  nothing  reassuring  in  the  atti 
tude  of  the  militia,  as  they  sang  and  cursed  and 
joked,  reviling  the  Indians  and  filling  the  end  of 
the  day  with  threats.  Deep  in  a  mood  of  abstrac 
tion,  he  arose  from  the  log  on  which  he  sat  and 
wandered  through  the  little  grove,  casting  over  in 
his  mind  what  might  be  done  to  avert  the  clash 
between  the  militia  and  the  Sacs. 

Frake,  whose  eyes  had  not  been  long  absent 
from  Randolph  at  any  time  of  the  carousal,  in  which 
he  indulged  with  his  men,  saw  him  go. 

"D'you  see  that?"  he  muttered  to  his  compan 
ions.  "See  him  sneaking  off  like  that?  Some- 
tliin's  up!  He'll  bear  watching,  that  man 
Randolph!" 


142          A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

Half  a  dozen  of  his  followers  staggered  to  their 
feet. 

'  *  By  God !  we  '11  watch  him, ' '  they  growled,  tak 
ing  their  guns  in  hand  and  stumbling  over  the 
uneven  ground  with  uncertain  steps. 

Frake  arose  among  them,  expostulating.  He 
pleaded  with  them  to  do  nothing  rash  in  much  the 
same  manner  that  he  had  lately  pleaded  with 
Eachel  Hall  to  spare  the  man's  reputation  whose 
life  he  had  now  brought  in  jeopardy. 

"Don't  be  in  a  hurry,  men!"  he  cried,  clinging 
to  a  pair  of  them  with  his  fat  hands.  "I  am  not 
sure  about  him;  I  only  say  to  watch  him.  If  he 
tries  anything,  there  will  be  time  enough ! ' ' 

The  men  were  not  in  a  temper  to  weigh  evidence. 
They  pushed  Frake  aside,  protesting  loudly  that 
they  would  have  no  traitors  in  camp.  Their  indig 
nation  grew  to  anger,  their  anger  swelled  into  rage. 
A  score  of  others  leaped  to  their  feet.  The  excite 
ment  of  the  chase  and  the  liquor  was  working  on 
the  hatred  of  the  redmen  that  was  in  each.  They 
became  frenzied.  Frake  no  longer  held  control. 

Major  Stillman,  hastening  thither  at  the  sound 
of  the  turmoil,  was  helpless.  Major  Bailey  pleaded 
with  them  in  vain.  They  were  a  mob.  They  cried 
out  for  the  blood  of  this  man  Randolph,  traitor  and 
spy.  With  a  hoarse  roar  they  turned  whither  he 
had  disappeared — fivescore  men,  maddened  by 
liquor  and  brute  passion.  Frake,  appalled  by  the 
violence  of  the  storm  he  had  brewed,  stood  speech- 


The  Flag  of  Truce  143 

less,  watching  them  with  staring  eyes,  his  jaws 
hanging  in  the  folds  of  fat  beneath  his  chin.  His 
device  had  worked  too  well.  The  explosion  was 
taking  place  too  soon  for  the  one  who  had  lighted 
the  fuse. 

Those  who  followed  Randolph,  seeking  his  blood 
as  that  of  a  traitor,  had  gone  scarcely  a  rod,  when 
the  one  who  led  them  gave  a  mighty  yell,  and  stood 
in  his  tracks.  Twenty  feet  ahead  of  them,  approach 
ing  through  the  grove,  were  three  Indians.  One  of 
them  carried  a  flag  of  truce.  With  them  was  the 
man  Randolph,  whom  they  sought. 

"Indians!"  shouted  the  leader. 

"Shoot  'em!  Hang  'em.  Kill  the  dirty  red 
skins  ! ' ' 

Some  one  in  the  mob  shouted  it.  Some  one  fired 
a  shot.  The  bullet  struck  the  stick  to  which  the  flag 
of  truce  was  fastened.  It  was  shattered  in  the  hand 
of  the  one  who  held  it.  The  flag  fell  into  the  dirt. 
The  Indians,  astonished  at  their  reception,  stared 
blankly  at  the  soldiers,  appreciating  their  danger, 
but  undaunted.  A  hoarse  roar  arose  from  many 
throats. 

"What  is  this  for?"  cried  Mortimer,  leaping 
before  the  Indians  and  confronting  the  men,  his 
eyes  flaring,  his  nostrils  dilated  with  wrath.  "Why 
do  you  fire  on  a  flag  of  truce?" 

Drunken  and  raging  though  they  were,  there 
was  something  about  the  appearance  and  behavior 
of  the  man  that  withheld  the  hands  of  the  soldiers 


144          A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

from  their  guns.  They  could  not  shoot  him  down 
in  cold  blood  without  a  word.  His  single  soul  was 
stronger  than  their  many. 

"Where  M  you  find  them  Indians?"  demanded 
one  of  the  men,  less  drunk  than  his  fellows.  "Who 
are  they?  What  do  they  want!" 

"I  met  them  coming  through  the  woods  with  a 
flag  of  truce,"  Mortimer  replied,  "and  conducted 
them  into  camp.  "They  have  come  from  the  Hawk 
to  parley.  They  are  asking  for  peace,  I  infer." 

"What  were  you  doing  in  the  woods?"  asked  the 
one  who  had  spoken  first,  the  suspicions  which 
Frake  had  aroused  strong  within  him. 

"I  was  endeavoring  to  get  away  from  the 
drunken  and  shameless  behavior  of  the  men  who 
should  be  soldiers!"  Mortimer  answered  back. 

Frake,  impelled  by  a  curiosity  that  overcame 
the  fear  endangered  by  his  responsibility  for  the 
outburst,  came  to  the  front  of  the  mob.  At  sight 
of  the  Indian  in  whose  hand  was  the  broken  stick 
that  had  carried  the  flag,  he  swelled  with  rage ;  the 
rage  of  a  bully  who  sees  his  enemy;  when  he  feels 
himself  at  an  advantage  in  the  presence  of  his 
enemy.  The  Indian  was  White  Eagle! 

"I  know  this  Indian  and  I  know  this  white  man," 
he  bellowed,  starting  forward  with  a  courage 
inspired  by  the  temper  of  the  men  behind  him. 
"Come  on!"  He  grasped  a  gun  from  the  hand  of 
a  soldier.  He  could  not  shoot,  for  men  from  other 
parts  of  the  camp,  drawn  by  the  noise,  had  sur- 


The  Flag  of  Truce  145 

rounded  the  group  of  Indians  and  were  in  the  line 
of  fire. 

The  half -crazed  men,  who  had  hesitated  for  lack 
of  a  leader,  pressed  forward  with  a  roar  of  anger. 
They  were  a  mob  once  more.  The  Indians  could 
not  understand  what  was  said.  They  only  knew 
their  danger  was  great.  They  stood  behind  the  one 
who  championed  them,  erect  and  defiant. 

The  mob  surged  forward,  paying  no  heed  to  the 
frantic  shouts  of  Stillman  and  Bailey,  who  would 
have  held  them  back.  With  a  rush,  they  closed 
about  the  Indians,  who  stood  motionless  and  unre 
sisting,  true  to  the  flag  of  truce,  which  lay  in  the 
dirt  at  their  feet. 

As  they  came,  Mortimer  Eandolph  fought  them 
back.  Without  a  weapon  of  any  kind,  he  struggled 
against  the  mass  with  body  and  limb.  His  white 
fist,  flashing  through  the  air,  fell  upon  the  soft  flesh 
of  Frake's  face,  bowling  him  over  heavily.  Twice, 
twenty  times,  he  struck  about  him.  One  of  the 
Indians  was  felled  with  the  butt  of  a  gun,  and  lay 
motionless  on  the  ground.  Bailey,  tears  in  his  eyes, 
tore  at  the  fringe  of  the  mob  in  vain  efforts  to  stop 
the  work  that  went  on.  Stillman,  struggling  where 
the  turmoil  was  highest,  gave  what  protection  he 
could  to  the  savages,  who  were  now  beginning  to 
fight  back,  seeing  no  hope  of  help  left  in  the  whites. 

Frake,  clambering  to  his  feet,  his  face  suffused 
with  blood  from  Kandolph's  blow,  fought  his  way 
toward  the  Southerner,  his  knife  in  hand  and  a 


146          A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

horrid  snarl  upon  his  lips.  Great  was  the  bravery 
of  Frake,  one  of  an  hundred  against  one  who 
resisted  alone!  He  came  to  the  side  of  Mortimer, 
whose  face  was  turned  away  in  the  exigencies  of 
the  struggle.  Frake 's  knife  was  raised.  His  wrist 
stiffened  for  the  blow.  He  set  his  teeth.  In  the 
instant,  while  the  impulse  was  traveling  from  his 
brain  to  the  nerves  of  his  arm,  Mortimer  turned. 
And  in  the  instant  his  hand  grasped  the  wrist  of 
Frake,  twisted  it,  and  sent  the  man  to  the  ground, 
crumpled  with  pain. 

*  *  Indians !    Indians ! ' ' 

Someone  came  crying  the  alarm  through  the 
woods.  At  the  cry,  the  fury  subsided  from  the 
tempestuous  mob  as  boiling  ceases  when  a  kettle  is 
removed  from  the  stove.  There  were  no  grada 
tions  in  the  going  down  of  the  ebullition.  It  stopped 
at  once.  Those  who  had  been  frantic  with  rage 
paused  to  listen  to  the  one  who  came  through  the 
woods,  crying  as  he  ran. 

"Indians!  Indians!"  he  said,  coming  up  to  the 
panting  group.  "A  swarm  of  them,  over  there!" 

He  pointed  across  the  prairie.  There,  in  the 
gathering  dusk,  they  saw  five  savages,  mounted  on 
horses,  riding  slowly  across  the  skyline  beyond  the 
camp.  At  the  sight  their  cries  arose  again,  and 
fury  broke  upon  them  once  more,  directed  this  time 
against  the  five  men  they  saw.  With  one  accord, 
oblivious  of  the  authority  of  their  officers,  each  for 
himself,  they  rushed  to  their  horses,  saddled  them 


The  Flag  of  Truce  147 

as  swiftly  as  they  could,  and  started  in  complete 
disorder  for  the  five  whom  they  had  seen.  In  the 
diversion,  the  two  of  the  peace  party  who  had  sur 
vived  the  fanaticism  of  these  American  militiamen 
vanished  into  the  grove. 

Major  Bailey,  seeing  the  stampede  of  his  sol 
diers,  mounted  and  followed.  Major  Stillman 
endeavored  to  form  such  men  as  had  not  already 
taken  the  field  on  their  own  initiative.  Frake, 
purple  with  wrath,  dashed  after  a  knot  of  his  own 
command.  Eandolph,  leisurely  saddling,  kept  wary 
eye  on  all  that  went  forward.  His  heart  was  heavy 
writhin  him,  for  he  knew  that  now  the  struggle  had 
been  precipitated.  One  comfort  he  found.  The  one 
of  the  three  truce  bearers  who  now  lay  dead  in  the 
camp  was  not  the  tall  young  brave  whom  he  had 
seen  on  the  hill  at  Saukenuk  the  year  before,  and 
whom  he  had  recognized  in  the  one  who  carried  the 
flag  of  truce. 

The  five  Indians,  seeing  the  rush  of  men  toward 
them,  put  spurs  to  their  horses,  and  were  soon  out 
of  sight.  Shouting  and  cursing,  the  militiamen 
dashed  across  the  prairie  on  their  trail.  In  vain 
did  Stillman,  riding  hard  behind  them,  shout  his 
commands  in  an  effort  to  bring  them  in  hand.  They 
laughed  at  him. 

A  cry  went  up  from  those  who  led  the  van  of  the 
straggling  pursuers.  Ahead  of  them,  riding  forth 
from  a  fringe  of  thicket,  was  a  small  band  of  Indi- 


148  A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

ans.  At  their  front,  vengeful  and  magnificent,  rode 
the  one  who  had  borne  the  flag  of  truce. 

The  Americans  pressed  on,  exultant,  to  brush 
away  this  handful.  The  Indians,  pretending  fright, 
withdrew  to  the  thicket.  Their  pursuers,  believing 
themselves  already  victors,  spurred  their  horses 
more  keenly,  that  not  one  of  the  savages  might 
escape.  A  long,  ragged  line  of  horsemen  drew  near 
the  thicket  where  the  Indians  had  vanished.  Like 
conquerors  they  rode,  shouting  ribaldry  to  each 
other  through  the  pale  shadows  of  the  evening. 

A  shot  from  the  thicket !  Another ;  and  another ! 
A  dozen!  A  score!  A  cry  that  was  half  a  scream 
tore  along  the  thin,  ragged  line.  One  man,  shriek 
ing,  tottered  and  fell  from  his  saddle  to  the  ground. 
His  horse,  in  panic,  wheeled  and  stampeded  back 
across  the  prairie.  Eeins  were  drawn.  Steeds 
plowed  through  the  soft  ground  on  their  haunches, 
suddenly  held  up  by  their  riders. 

A  wild  yell  arose  from  the  thicket;  a  cluster  of 
mounted  Indians  broke  cover,  and  ran  fiercely 
toward  the  line  of  whites,  brandishing  spears  and 
hatchets,  guns  and  knives. 

"Bun,  men.    Eun  for  your  lives!" 

It  was  Major  Bailey  gave  the  order;  the  only 
order  which  his  command  had  ever  obeyed  with  the 
alacrity  which  marks  good  soldiery.  As  fast  as 
they  could  bring  their  horses  to  a  stop  and  turn 
them,  the  men  wheeled  and  fled  back  toward  their 
camp.  Major  Stillman,  arriving  with  the  handful 


The  Flag  of  Truce  149 

that  he  had  gathered  into  formation,  faced  them 
about  and  bade  them  fly  for  their  lives,  as  his  junior 
had  done,  giving  them  at  the  same  time  an  eloquent 
object  lesson  in  retreating. 

Of  the  whole  force  of  three  hundred  and  fifty 
men,  but  one  rode  toward  the  enemy.  That  one, 
mounted  on  a  beautiful  roan  that  quivered  with  the 
excitement  of  the  firing,  went  steadily  forward  to 
a  clump  of  woods  where  his  quick  eye  told  him  a 
stand  could  best  be  made.  Fugitives,  crazed  with 
fear,  passed  him,  shouting  that  Black  Hawk  with 
his  thousands  was  after  them. 

The  Indians,  breaking  into  four  squads  of  ten 
or  a  dozen  each,  struck  off  in  different  directions 
of  pursuit.  One  squad,  larger  than  the  other,  made 
for  the  clump  of  trees  in  the  prairie  toward  which 
Mortimer  rode.  It  was  led  by  the  brave  who  had 
carried  the  flag  of  truce.  As  he  came  on,  Mortimer 
marveled  at  the  speed  which  had  enabled  him  to  get 
back  from  the  American  camp  to  his  friends  in  time 
to  join  in  the  fight. 

Entering  the  clump  of  trees  at  one  side  before 
the  Indians  had  reached  the  other,  Mortimer 
glanced  hastily  about  to  see  if  there  were  any 
nucleus  of  a  force  to  which  he  might  attach  himself. 
Of  all  the  three  hundred  and  fifty  he  alone  deplored 
the  struggle  with  Black  Hawk,  and  desired  that 
there  might  have  been  no  quarrel.  Of  all  the  three 
hundred  and  fifty,  he  was  the  only  one  who  seemed 
ready  to  fight,  now  that  the  unhappy  time  had  come 


150  A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

— the  only  one  save  a  small  knot  of  men  whom  he 
saw  at  last  standing  in  the  woods  on  the  edge  of  a 
little  stream,  prepared  to  meet  the  oncoming  sav 
ages — Major  Perkins,  Captain  Adams,  men  whom 
he  had  known  in  the  march,  with  a  handful  of  men 
about  them.  Putting  spurs  to  his  horse,  he  leaped 
the  creek  and  galloped  toward  them. 

As  he  rode,  the  Indian  yell  was  heard  in  the 
fringe  of  the  clump  of  trees.  Some  of  the  men  with 
the  two  officers,  firing  once,  broke  and  fled  on  their 
horses.  Some  of  them  stayed.  Among  those  who 
fled  was  Frake — his  fury  made  impotent  by  his 
terror.  He  came  in  his  flight  toward  Mortimer. 
His  face  was  distorted  by  passion  and  fear.  His 
eyes  protruded  from  his  head. 

Close  behind  him  pursued  the  Indian  who  had 
borne  the  flag  of  truce;  whose  strong  fingers  had 
once  been  about  the  neck  of  the  man  he  pursued. 
Now  they  would  not  give  over  their  hold,  if  once 
they  made  it  fast,  until  the  carcass  of  the  man  went 
limp  in  their  grasp.  Frake,  turning,  saw  the  Indian 
.and  groaned.  Mortimer  felt  the  whiff  of  his  flight 
as  he  sped  past.  He  saw  the  Indian  raise  himself 
from  his  horse's  back,  poising  his  spear.  He  saw 
the  dun  arm  whip  through  the  air.  He  saw  the 
streak  of  the  spear  against  a  bit  of  sky  that  peeped 
among  the  trees,  as  it  flew  toward  the  retreating 
man. 

As  it  flew,  he  struck  through  the  air  with  his  gun, 
as  quick  as  a  cat  might  have  done  with  its  paw,  and 


The  Flag  of  Truce  151 

struck  the  javelin  from  its  course.  The  Indian,  in 
mad  career,  was  abreast  of  him.  Until  then,  the 
savage  had  not  seen  him,  so  intent  was  he  upon  the 
other.  Gripping  his  horse  mightily  with  his  knees, 
Randolph  flung  his  arm  about  the  waist  of  the 
brave,  swept  him  from  his  seat  and  threw  him  to 
the  ground,  where  he  lay  for  the  moment  gasping 
and  breathless.  Spurring  his  own  horse,  Randolph 
rode  toward  the  few  who  stood  now  the  center  of  a 
whirling  group  of  screaming  savages. 

Not  for  long  did  the  struggle  last.  Charging 
through  the  Indians  from  the  outside  with  yells  and 
blows  of  his  clubbed  gun,  he  scattered  them  for  a 
breath,  and  in  another  breath  they  were  gone,  in 
search  of  a  prey  that  did  not  fight.  Bodies  lay  upon 
the  ground,  writhing  in  the  dark  shadows  of  the 
trees.  Randolph  dismounted,  hoping  there  might 
be  some  whom  he  could  succor.  As  he  passed 
among  them,  leaning  over  to  feel  for  their  pulse,  to 
listen  to  their  breathing,  the  last  of  them  gasped 
and  lay  still. 

With  a  heavy  heart  he  remounted  "Powhatan," 
and  made  his  way  to  camp,  cautious  and  watchful. 


CHAPTEE  XI 
MASSACRE 

MORTIMER  RANDOLPH  rode  through  the 
woods  lying  between  Dixon's  Ferry  and 
Ottawa  in  the  heart  of  a  May  morning.  The  sun 
shone  softly  upon  him  through  the  tender  leaves  of 
the  new  fledged  trees.  The  flowers  smiled  up  at  him 
from  the  mold.  Birds  twittered  among  the  branches 
overhead,  busy  with  their  nests.  The  heart  of  Mor 
timer  was  light  within  him;  he  rode  whistling  a 
tune;  for  on  his  return  his  way  would  lie  through 
Indian  Creek. 

He  was  bearing  expresses  from  Governor  Rey 
nolds  to  Ottawa,  to  be  forwarded  thence  to  Van- 
dalia,  the  capital.  The  militia,  alarmed  by  the 
reports  brought  in  by  Stillman's  stampeded  men, 
cowered  in  their  camp  at  Dixon's,  refusing  in 
their  present  numbers  to  go  forth  and  fight.  They 
were  growing  mutinous,  and  threatened  to  return 
to  their  homes.  Governor  Reynolds,  in  despair, 
was  sending  to  his  capital  for  more  help.  It  was 
these  messages  which  Mortimer  carried  on  their 
first  relay. 

Forgetting  the  sorrow  and  bitterness  of  the  war 
as  he  rode,  thinking  only  of  Sylvia,  and  what  it  was 
he  had  to  say  to  her,  he  passed  beneath  the  trees, 

152 


Massacre  153 

flecked  with  the  sunlight  that  fluttered  through  the 
leaves,  eager  and  joyous.  At  intervals  as  he  rode 
he  took  from  the  breast  of  his  coat  a  large  envelope, 
looked  into  it  with  an  expression  of  the  highest  sat 
isfaction,  and  replaced  it  tenderly.  It  was  the  letter 
he  had  received  at  New  Salem  the  day  before  he 
had  first  set  out  for  Indian  Creek. 

He  was  in  the  midst  of  one  of  these  inspections, 
after  he  had  been  riding  upward  of  an  hour,  when 
he  heard  a  horse  coming  along  the  trail  ahead  of 
him.  Powhatan  first  called  his  attention  to  the 
sound  of  the  animal's  steps  by  a  series  of  soft 
snorts.  The  times  being  uncertain,  Mortimer  reined 
his  horse  to  the  side  of  the  path,  behind  a  bush 
which  concealed  them  both,  drew  his  pistol,  cocked 
it,  and  waited. 

The  one  who  approached  was  in  no  haste.  He 
came  at  a  pace  distractingly  slow.  Powhatan, 
losing  patience,  pawed  the  turf — entirely  without 
noise,  however — and  looked  petulantly  at  his  mas 
ter.  Presently  Mortimer  saw  the  man  coming 
toward  him.  He  was  white.  He  rode  with  head 
down,  deep  in  meditation.  His  horse,  taking  advan 
tage  of  his  preoccupation,  walked. 

There  was  something  familiar  to  Mortimer  about 
the  appearance  of  the  man.  He  eyed  him  more 
attentively.  It  was  Frake.  He  recalled  then  some 
thing  that  had  passed  out  of  his  mind — that  Frake 
had  left  Dixon's  without  announcing  his  errand 
early  on  that  morning,  when  he  himself  was  waiting 


154  A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

for  the  despatches  to  be  prepared.  Without  any 
assigned  reason,  he  conceived  a  suspicion  from  the 
circumstance  of  his  having  come  this  way. 

Frake 's  horse,  getting  a  sniff  of  Powhatan, 
brought  up  short  with  a  snort  of  surprise.  Frake 
snorted,  too,  at  sight  of  a  man  drawn  up  beside  the 
trail  behind  a  bush  with  a  cocked  pistol  in  his  hand. 
Observing  on  a  second  glance  who  it  was  that  way 
laid  him,  his  first  fright  gave  way  to  heavier  fear 
and  keen  distress.  His  face  indicated  confusion 
and  embarrassment,  as  well.  He  stammered,  with 
out  forming  any  articulated  syllables.  Mortimer 
smiled  grimly  at  him. 

' '  Well,  Frake,  it  's  you,  is  it  ?  Pleasant  morning 
for  a  ride,  isn't  it?"  he  said.  "You  see,"  he  went 
on,  his  brown  eyes  closing  to  slits  and  the  smile 
vanishing  from  his  face,  "I  am  here  a  little  sooner 
than  one  might  have  expected.  Now,  I  do  n  't  want 
to  be  rude,  Frake,  but  I  '11  have  to  ask  you  to  ride 
on  down  the  trail  for  a  piece;  and  you  need  not 
trouble  yourself  to  look  back." 

"What  if  I  won't  do  it?"  growled  Frake,  per 
ceiving  that  the  other  exhibited  no  signs  of  imme 
diate  hostility. 

"Well,  I  hadn't  thought  what  I  might  do  under 
those  circumstances,  because  I  think  that  you  will," 
returned  Mortimer,  calmly,  fingering  his  pistol  in  a 
persuasive  manner. 

"What  business  you  got  ordering  me?"  snarled 


Massacre  155 

the  other,  his  eyes  gleaming  with  hatred.  "You 
bullying  coward!" 

" ;We  shan't  stop  to  discuss  it,  Frake — at  the 
present  time."  Mortimer  added  the  qualifying 
clause  with  distinct  significance.  "I  am  willing  to 
take  my  chances  with  the  Indians,  Frake,  but  I 
do  n  't  want  to  be  traveling  with  you  too  close 
behind.  Come,  now !  I  am  somewhat  in  haste." 

"What  you  going  to  do?  Shoot  me  in  the 
back!"  Frake  intended  insulting  irony  in  his  tone, 
and  in  the  leer  which  accompanied  it. 

"If  I  should,  I  apprehend  that  I  should  only  be 
saving  someone  else  the  trouble,"  returned  Morti 
mer,  serenely.  He  swung  his  pistol  impressively  in 
the  direction  of  the  trail  toward  Dixon's,  without 
further  word.  Frake,  cursing  beneath  his  breath, 
started  his  horse  and  passed  by  him. 

"You  've  got  the  drop  on  me  this  time,  you 
blackguard,"  he  muttered,  "but  I  '11  get  you  yet! 
I  '11  get  you  yet ! ' ' 

Mortimer  watched  until  he  disappeared.  Dis 
mounting,  he  stole  softly  after  him  for  a  distance, 
to  make  sure  that  he  continued  on  his  course. 
Mounting  again,  he  took  up  his  way  toward  Ottawa. 

"Frake  is  a  bad  customer,  I  am  afraid, 
Powhatan,"  he  said,  as  he  rode.  "We  are  likely 
to  have  trouble  with  him  before  we  are  through; 
though  I  can't  entirely  understand  why  we  should 
have  aroused  his  enmity." 

Powhatan    seemed    to    share    in    the    premoni- 


156          A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

tion  and  the  perplexity  of  his  master,  for  he  flicked 
his  ears  a  number  of  times,  and  whinnied  softly  as 
he  fell  into  his  lope. 

They  had  traveled  for  an  hour  or  two  from  the 
time  of  the  meeting  with  Frake.  Mortimer,  think 
ing  of  many  things,  had  forgotten  it.  His  wary  eyes 
no  longer  studied  the  thickets  and  covers  as  he  rode. 
Suddenly  Powhatan,  snorting,  stood  still  in  the 
trail,  his  ears  erect,  his  limbs  trembling  with  excite 
ment.  Mortimer,  recalled  to  the  present,  followed 
the  stare  of  the  animal,  fixed  upon  a  clump  of  bushes 
at  a  short  distance  to  the  left  of  the  trail. 

"Well,  boy,  what  it  is?  Indians?"  he  said, 
addressing  the  horse,  as  he  was  accustomed  to  do 
when  they  traveled  alone. 

The  horse  nickered.  Penetrating  the  bush  with 
his  gaze,  Mortimer  saw  a  pair  of  eyes  and  an  Indi 
an's  face,  nearly  hidden  by  the  leaves — a  sinister, 
hangdog  face.  Half  of  one  of  the  Indian's  ears — 
the  right  one — was  lopped  off.  As  he  looked,  with 
a  faint  remembrance  of  the  face  and  the  half  ear  in 
his  mind,  there  was  a  flash  from  the  bush,  a  puff  of 
smoke,  the  crack  of  a  musket.  A  bullet  whistled 
past  his  head.  The  face  vanished. 

Driving  his  spurs  into  the  quivering  withers  of 
Powhatan,  he  rushed  toward  the  bushes.  The 
horse  could  not  penetrate.  He  threw  himself  from 
its  back  and  struggled  through  the  tangled  boughs, 
his  pistol  cocked,  his  eyes  peering  among  the  leaves. 
He  found  no  trace  of  the  ambuscade,  and  returned 


Massacre  157 

to  Powhatan.  Mounting,  he  rode  cautiously  for 
ward,  looking  on  all  sides  as  he  went. 

"By  George,  Powhatan!"  he  exclaimed,  when 
he  had  ridden  a  few  paces.  "That  is  the  Indian 
Frake  met  at  Saukenuk!  I  recall  him  now.  He  is 
the  one  whom  the  Indian  woman  called  Half  Ear, 
when  we  found  him  on  the  hill  that  day. 
Powhatan,  my  boy,  there's  something  behind 
this !  If  we  only  knew  what  it  was,  old  fellow,  we 
should  probably  know  what  Frake  was  doing  out 
this  way  so  early  this  morning.  Well,  Half  Ear," 
he  added,  apostrophizing  the  Indian,  "by  your  looks 
I  should  judge  you  were  in  fit  company ! ' ' 

The  mystery  was  not  enough  to  hold  his  mind 
from  what  it  had  been  dwelling  upon  as  he  rode,  and 
by  the  time  he  had  reached  Ottawa  the  incident  of 
the  ambush  was  submerged  beneath  the  flood  of 
fancies  that  buoyed  up  his  heart.  He  did  not  tarry 
long  there.  He  waited  only  to  bait  his  horse  after 
he  had  delivered  his  messages.  As  for  himself,  it 
did  not  occur  to  him  to  eat,  though  he  had  ridden 
nearly  fifty  miles  since  the  morning. 

It  was  late  in  the  afternoon  before  he  was  on  his 
way  to  Indian  Creek.  It  was  so  late  that  in  ordi 
nary  circumstances  he  would  not  have  started  again 
that  day.  But  there  was  that  in  his  heart  which 
would  not  wait. 

Powhatan  felt  it,  too.  He  swung  off  down 
the  road  that  led  along  the  edge  of  the  prairie  to  the 
little  settlement,  a  dozen  miles  away,  as  though  he 


158  A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

had  that  moment  come  fresh  from  his  stall.  His 
ears  played  as  his  master  talked  to  him ;  with  every 
bound  he  gave  a  little  confidential  snort  in  response. 
His  master  laid  no  hand  on  him,  letting  him  take 
his  own  pace.  The  miles  reeled  away  behind  his 
heels.  An  hour  passed  at  the  same  swinging  lope. 
Scarcely  two  miles  of  the  way  was  left. 

"Good  fellow,  Powhatan!"  exclaimed  Mortimer 
Randolph,  in  great  spirits,  looking  over  his  shoul 
der  at  the  sun,  which  hung  low  in  the  west.  "We  '11 
make  it  before  sundown. ' ' 

The  horse  tossed  his  head,  as  though  he  had 
intended  to  do  so  from  the  first,  and  stuck  to  his  gait 
with  even  breath.  Overhead  the  blue  sky  was  pal 
ing  into  grey.  Larks,  springing  from  the  ground 
as  he  passed,  fluttered  away  with  song  in  their 
throats.  A  soft  wind  made  sheen  over  the  lush 
grass.  The  odor  of  spring  was  in  the  air.  The  feel 
of  it  was  abroad.  The  lips  of  Mortimer  sang  a  song 
as  he  went,  with  eyes  searching  the  landscape  for 
the  first  view  of  the  settlement  in  among  the  trees 
near  the  creek. 

"There  is  the  place,  Powhatan!"  he  cried,  fixing 
his  eyes  on  the  woods.  "Eight  behind  that  thick 
point  in  the  grove." 

Powhatan,  making  answer  with  a  series  of  low 
snorts,  quickened  his  pace.  The  sun,  red  in  the 
western  sky,  cast  a  crimson  glow  over  the  prairie. 
Shadows  thickened  in  the  woods.  Behind  the  woods 
as  they  approached  lifted  a  thick  head  of  smoke. 


Massacre  159 

"  Strange  how  these  people  out  here  go  to  the 
labor  of  clearing  the  forests  for  a  place  for  their 
fields,  when  they  have  all  these  wide  and  fertile 
prairies  to  hand,"  he  remarked,  habituated  to 
express  his  thoughts  aloud  when  he  was  alone  with 
his  horse.  He  had  observed  the  smoke  and  supposed 
the  settlers  were  burning  brush. 

Half  a  mile !    The  smoke  rose  higher. 

"That  's  a  pretty  big  bonfire  they  're  burning, 
old  fellow,"  said  Mortimer,  looking  at  it  earnestly, 
some  wonder  in  his  gaze. 

A  quarter  of  a  mile!  The  black  billows  swelled 
above  the  trees. 

' '  Powhatan !    Did  you  hear  that  I ' ' 

Mortimer,  leaning  forward  in  his  saddle,  listened 
intently,  his  hand  behind  his  ear.  He  had  heard  a 
cry.  Powhatan  pricked  his  ears  and  snorted  once, 
softly.  He  had  heard  it,  too.  His  feet  fell  more 
lightly  on  the  ground.  He  slackened  his  pace  for 
an  instant. 

Across  the  glow  of  sunset  that  was  upon  the 
prairie,  from  the  direction  of  the  headland  of  woods, 
it  came  again — a  sound  that  checked  the  currents 
of  Mortimer's  blood — the  cry  of  a  man  in  the  last 
extremity!  Powhatan,  hearing  it,  snorted  loudly 
and  broke  into  a  gallop.  Mortimer,  pale,  distraught 
with  dread  and  suspense,  compressed  his  lips,  and 
said  no  word. 

Another  sound  reached  his  ear;  sharp,  weird, 
frightful. 


160  A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

1  'Great  God,  Powhatan!  Indians!"  cried  the 
rider. 

Powhatan,  snorting  loudly,  laid  back  his  ears 
and  quickened  into  a  run.  The  face  of  Mortimer, 
paler  still,  grew  intense.  His  eyes  stared  before. 
His  breath  came  quickly. 

' '  Powhatan !  Powhatan ! "  he  whispered  hoarsely, 
encouraging  him  to  greater  exertion.  "Powhatan! 
Powhatan!"  as  the  horse  flew  across  the  even 
prairie  road. 

Gaining  speed  with  every  bound,  lengthening  his 
stride,  his  body  close  and  closer  to  the  ground  as 
he  leaped,  the  horse  ran  such  a  race  as  he  had  never 
run.  The  grass  streaked  past,  green  and  red 
beneath  the  glow  of  the  sunset  heavens. 

The  eager  eyes  of  Mortimer,  fixed  on  the  spot 
where  the  settlement  was,  saw  the  smoke  arising 
higher  above  the  trees;  the  column  filling  swiftly 
into  a  dark,  whirling  volume,  tumbling  upward. 
The  lower  surfaces  of  it  glowed  ruddy  as  it  rolled 
and  bellied.  The  top  of  it  glinted  with  the  setting 
sun.  The  glare  of  flames  shone  between  the  trunks 
of  the  trees.  With  it  all  was  a  horrible  stillness. 

"Now,  Powhatan,  let  your  breeding  tell!  Let 
the  pride  of  your  long  line  reach  greater  renown! 
There  is  none  to  watch  you  save  only  one ;  but  never 
was  race  run  for  greater  stakes !" 

Three  hundred  yards  lay  between  them  and  the 
point  of  trees,  behind  which  was  the  place  where 


Massacre  161 

the  houses  were,  or  had  been.  Two  hundred!  A 
hundred  yards !  Faster,  faster,  he  sped ! 

His  master  no  longer  whispered  his  name  into 
the  leveled  ears.  Another  name  was  upon  the  man's 
lips,  spoken  fervently,  in  the  voice  of  one  who  prays. 

"Sylvia!    Sylvia!" 

Now  he  could  catch  glimpses  between  the  boles 
of  the  trees  that  formed  the  point;  glimpses  of 
seething  masses  of  fire,  from  which  dense  columns 
of  smoke  rushed  into  the  air.  The  sound  of  flames 
came  to  his  ears ;  a  muttering,  growling,  heavy  roar, 
sprinkled  with  faint,  crackling  noises.  There  was 
no  other  sound,  save  that  of  Powhatan's  hoofs 
echoed  from  the  wall  of  trees. 

The  point  was  gained.  Powhatan,  trembling 
from  the  strain  of  his  exertions  and  excitement, 
wheeled  close  about  the  last  tree.  He  sped  toward 
that  which  had  been  the  settlement  of  Indian  Creek. 
As  he  turned,  a  groan  came  from  the  lips  of  his 
master. 

The  few  houses  that  had  comprised  the  settle 
ment  were  now  pyramids  of  leaping  fire.  Flames 
struck  through  the  windows  of  the  cabin  where 
Sylvia  had  lived.  They  licked  hungrily  about  the 
red  lips  of  the  logs.  They  lapped  at  the  outer  sur 
faces.  Tiny  blazes  sprang  up  behind  them  as  they 
swung. 

In  the  whole  view  there  was  no  man  or  woman, 
unless  a  hideous  heap  that  lay  some  paces  from  the 
houses  near  the  creek  might  still  be  called  a  man — 


162          A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

or  a  woman.  Over  all  was  the  silence  of  mystery; 
nothing  but  the  flames  to  tell  him  what  had  become 
of  his  beloved. 

" Sylvia!  Sylvia!'*  he  cried,  throwing  himself 
from  his  horse,  which  stood  gasping  so  close  to  the 
burning  houses  that  the  heat  was  pungent  upon  the 
man's  face  and  hands. 

"Sylvia!" 

He  ran  toward  the  house.  Only  the  tongues  of 
flame  made  answer  to  his  cry  of  agony. 

"Sylvia!" 

His  hurrying  feet  struck  against  something  soft 
and  heavy.  It  was  the  body  of  William  Hall,  her 
father.  The  lips  were  mute.  The  eyes  gave  back 
no  look. 

He  rushed  to  the  house.  The  flames  beat  him 
back.  He  ran  to  the  edge  of  the  little  ridge  over 
looking  the  creek  bottom  to  stare  across  the  ground 
with  a  dread  upon  him  that  dulled  his  soul.  He  was 
calling  her  name,  now  softly,  now  with  a  shriek  of 
despair.  Only  the  flames,  roaring  and  chuckling, 
made  mocking  answer.  A  sense  of  utter,  desolate 
solitude  possessed  him. 

He  ran  whither  Powhatan  gasped  for  breath  and 
threw  his  arms  around  the  animal's  neck,  to  rid 
himself  of  the  feeling  of  loneliness  that  drove  him 
mad.  His  eyes  were  as  the  red  windows  of  the 
burning  houses. 

He  hurried  back  to  the  cabin  where  she  had 
lived.  He  would  enter  there,  through  all  the  fires 


Massacre  163 

of  hell !  The  flames  seared  his  face.  He  threw  his 
arms  before  it,  to  protect  his  eyes  until  they  should 
see — that  which  he  sought.  The  fire  singed  his  hair. 
The  heat  of  it  in  his  nostrils  stifled  him.  He  gasped. 
He  threw  back  his  head.  He  gathered  strength  to 
rush  though  the  flames.  There  would  be  but  a 
moment,  and  then 

Out  of  the  desolate  solitude  there  came  the  voice 
of  some  one  calling  him;  calling  him  by  name. 
''Randolph!  Randolph!  For  the  love  of  God, 
do  n't  go  in  there !"  cried  the  voice. 

He  turned  and  staggered  from  the  fire,  beating 
out  the  flames  that  had  caught  in  his  clothing.  The 
smoke  pursued  him.  A  huge,  blazing  arm,  leaping 
from  the  house,  darted  after  him,  enveloping  him 
for  an  instant.  So  vigorously  it  leaped  that  it  tore 
itself  loose,  and  went  hurling  upward,  a  detached 
sheet  of  flame,  to  flutter  and  disperse  the  heated  air. 
Blinded,  gagging,  he  dragged  himself  free. 

* '  Sylvia ! "  he  called  again. 

"Sylvia  isn't  in  there,"  answered  the  voice. 
"She  is  all  right.  She  isn't  killed.  The  Indians 
have  got  her." 

The  voice  was  close  in  front  of  him.  Sight, 
returning  to  his  eyes,  revealed  to  him  William  Hall, 
the  brother,  white  with  terror,  but  unharmed. 
Mortimer  groped  about  for  speech. 

"I  don't  think  they  '11  hurt  the  girls,"  repeated 
Hall,  dazed.  "It  was  Pottowatomies  that  got  them. 
They  won't  hurt  them." 


164          A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

"Which  way  did  they  go?"  cried  the  other, 
finding  his  voice. 

"North,"  made  answer  William  Hall,  blankly. 

"Have  you  a  horse?" 

"They  took  all  the  horses." 

"Have  you  a  gun?" 

"The  guns  were  in  the  house.  Say,  you  can't 
chase  them!"  burst  forth  the  young  man,  realizing 
what  the  other  had  in  mind,  and  forgetting  his 
antipathy  in  the  face  of  the  calamity.  "You  'd 
never  catch  them.  If  you  did,  you  could  n't  do  any 
thing.  There  are  a  hundred  of  them.  Anyway,  if 
you  tried  it  they  would  kill  the  girls,  sure!  They 
would  never  let  them  get  away  like  that ! ' ' 

Mortimer  made  no  answer.  He  strode  toward 
his  horse.  Hall  followed  him  as  he  went. 

"See  here!  "he  pleaded.  "Don't  try  that!  The 
best  thing  you  can  do  for  the  girls  is  to  get  to 
Dixon's  as  soon  as  you  can  and  give  the  alarm." 

Mortimer  paid  no  heed  to  the  man.  He  reached 
Powhatan's  side.  He  placed  his  foot  in  the  stirrup. 
Hall  laid  hold  of  his  arm. 

"Don't  go,  I  tell  you!  Don't  be  a  fool!"  he 
cried.  In  crises  enemies  forget. 

Mortimer  threw  off  his  hand,  and  swung  himself 
from  the  ground.  As  he  did  so  Powhatan.  groan 
ing,  staggered  and  fell,  overborne  in  his  exhaustion 
by  the  weight  of  his  master.  Mortimer  was  scarcely 
able  to  leap  out  from  under. 


Massacre  165 

"What  do  you  think  you  could  do  with  that 
horse!"  ejaculated  Hall,  looking  at  the  animal, 
which  made  no  effort  to  rise. 

The  accident  brought  reason  back  to  the  mind  of 
Mortimer.  Gazing  ruefully  at  Powhatan,  he  knelt 
beside  him  and  rubbed  his  nose. 

"Are  you  ready  to  set  out  for  Dixon's?"  he 
asked,  presently.  His  voice  was  calm  and  contained. 

Hall  made  answer  that  he  was.  The  other  urged 
Powhatan  to  his  feet,  loosened  the  cinch,  threw  off 
the  bridle,  and  slung  it  over  his  arm. 

"Come!"  he  said.    "Let  us  be  off." 

They  started  through  the  gathering  dusk, 
Powhatan  after  them. 

With  much  unction,  as  one  to  whom  fame  is 
assured,  William  Hall  told  of  the  attack  made  that 
afternoon  upon  the  settlers ;  how  the  band  of  Potto- 
watomies,  led  by  Mike  Girty,  whom  he  knew,  had 
descended  upon  them;  how  his  father  and  mother 
and  the  Davises,  and  all  the  settlers,  save  his  sisters 
and  himself,  had  been  killed  and  scalped,  together 
with  minute  details  of  the  preceding  and  attendant 
circumstances. 

Mortimer,  trudging  by  his  side  through  the  dark 
ness  of  night,  heard  little  of  the  story.  His  thoughts 
could  not  fasten  on  more  than  one  fascinating  fact. 
But  this  he  heard,  as  they  walked  through  the  night : 

"Three  of  them  were  Sacs.  One  of  the  Sacs 
was  the  worst  looking  Indian  I  ever  saw;  a  little, 


166  A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

weazened  fellow  with  a  crooked  face.    One  half  of 
his  right  ear  had  been  cut  off  sometime!" 

Whereat  the  thoughts  of  the  listener  passed 
swiftly  away  from  what  he  was  thought  to  be 
hearing. 


CHAPTER   XII 

A  MESSAGE  FOE  THE  HAWK 

ENEEAL  WHITESIDE,  sir,  General  Atkin- 
son  is  right.  His  only  mistake  is  that  he  is 
not  emphatic  enough.  The  militia,  as  it  is,  is  worth 
less — it  is  worse  than  worthless.  It  would  be  much 
better  if  we  could  send  them  all  home  to  their  women 
and  let  the  regulars  catch  the  old  fox ;  but  the  orders 
we  have  from  Washington  make  it  necessary  for  us 
to  send  the  militia  into  the  field.  Therefore  we  must 
make  them  effective  by  drill  and  discipline  before 
they  make  any  advance.  Your  men,  sir,  look  upon 
this  campaign  as  a  pleasure  excursion  contrived  for 
their  benefit  and  enjoyment.  They  must  be  taught 
that  it  is  war,  sir ;  war ! ' ' 

Colonel  Zachary  Taylor,  seated  at  the  right  hand 
of  General  Atkinson  at  the  dining  table  in  John 
Dixon's  tavern,  delivered  himself  in  this  fashion  to 
General  Whiteside  and  the  members  of  a  council  of 
officers,  punctuating  his  speech  with  many  jerkings 
of  his  round,  hard  head  and  thumpings  upon  the 
table.  Opposite  to  him,  in  some  concern  over  the 
nature  of  the  colonel's  remarks,  sat  Major  Robert 
Anderson,  U.  S.  A.  At  his  right  was  Second  Lieu 
tenant  Jefferson  Davis,  his  aide,  a  young  man  of 
elegant  and  handsome  features  and  an  air  of  high 

167 


168  A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

breeding;  courageous,  chivalrous,  haughty.  Dis 
posed  about  the  board  were  General  Whiteside, 
Governor  Reynolds,  Major  Henry,  Major  Stillman, 
Major  Bailey,  Captain  Fry  and  a  number  of  the 
officers  of  the  militia. 

Among  them,  at  the  bottom  of  the  table,  incon 
spicuous,  retiring,  modestly  listening  to  the  discus 
sion  that  went  forward,  was  one  who,  in  the  fullness 
of  time,  was  to  sit  at  other  war  councils  in  the  land 
with  the  weight  of  his  country  upon  his  shoulders. 
If  Abraham  Lincoln  had  been  told  that  day  that  the 
brilliant  young  lieutenant  sitting  at  the  right  hand 
of  the  rugged  colonel,  whose  handsome  face,  dis 
tinguished  bearing,  high  culture,  and  easy  manner 
he  admired  and  half  envied  as  he  watched  him, 
should  some  day  be  opposed  to  him  at  the  head  of 
the  bitterest  and  most  tragic  struggle  in  history,  he 
would  probably  have  expressed  his  opinion  of  the 
prophecy  in  an  appropriate  anecdote. 

Major  Bailey  exhibiting  symptoms  of  resent 
ment  at  the  colonel's  condemnation  of  the  militia, 
Taylor  turned  to  him. 

"Major  Bailey  will  be  able  to  substantiate  what 
I  have  said,"  he  remarked.  "He  has  seen  the 
militia  in  action  under  excellent  opportunities  for 
observation.  He  knows  how  well  they  fight !" 

Governor  Eeynolds,  under  the  obligation 
imposed  by  his  office,  found  it  necessary  to  under 
take  a  mild  defence  of  the  people  of  his  State,  to 
which  Colonel  Taylor  was  about  to  reply  with  some 


A  Message  for  the  Hawk  169 

heat  when  General  Atkinson  diplomatically  inter 
posed  for  the  sake  of  peace. 

''My  contention  is  not  that  the  militia  is  totally 
unfit  for  service,  gentlemen,"  he  said,  "though  we 
are  all  agreed,  I  think,  that  they  could  be  made  more 
effective  by  stricter  discipline  and  drill.  There  are 
other  elements  to  the  problem,  however.  The  temper 
of  the  men  must  be  considered. ' ' 

"They  must  be  taught  temper!"  interrupted 
Colonel  Taylor. 

"The  process  would  require  time,  colonel," 
returned  his  superior.  "It  is  necessary  to  bear  in 
mind  that  the  men  are  so  unused  to  restraint  that 
it  is  a  question  whether  strict  military  rigor  might 
not  impair  their  value  at  first,  rather  than  increase 
it,  by  destroying  their  present  enthusiasm,  which 
has  revived,  and  arousing  their  resentment.  They 
would  not  readily  relinquish  their  civil  rights.  Gen 
eral  Whiteside  reports  that  they  are  now  chafing  to 
take  up  the  pursuit  of  Black  Hawk,  and  that  their 
morale  is  rapidly  disintegrating  under  the  enervat 
ing  effects  of  their  enforced  inactivity,  which  is  a 
circumstance  to  be  considered  in  dealing  with 
civilian  soldiers. 

' '  For  we  are  forced  to  deal  with  them  in  the  dual 
capacity,  colonel,"  he  added  to  Taylor,  who  gave 
symptoms  of  an  eruption;  "added  to  which  is  the 
fact  that  the  situation  demands  that  a  blow  be 
struck  at  the  Indians  without  further  delay.  If 
Black  Hawk  intends  to  join  the  Winnebagos,  as  is 


170          A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

reported,  any  time  that  may  be  afforded  him  is  to 
our  marked  disadvantage — to  say  nothing  of  the 
alarm  in  which  the  country  has  been  thrown  by  his 
continuing  at  large.  Therefore  I  must  beg  of  you, 
gentlemen,  to  come  to  a  consideration  of  the  prob 
lem  which  the  council  was  called  to  solve;  namely, 
where  and  how  to  strike  the  blow ! ' ' 

For  an  hour  the  discussion  ran  high.  Plans  of 
campaign  by  the  score  were  proposed  and  disposed 
of.  The  debate  drifted  'round  and  'round,  always 
striking  at  last  upon  the  snag  of  unwillingness,  or 
unfitness,  to  do  the  tasks  involved  in  the  several 
schemes.  The  men  would  not  consent,  many  of 
them,  their  officers  said,  to  go  out  of  the  State  in 
pursuit  of  the  Hawk ;  they  were  not  equipped  for  a 
long  campaign ;  as  a  force  they  were  cumbrous  and 
unmanageable.  The  council  grew  acrimonious. 
General  Atkinson,  continually  rapping  on  the  table 
for  order,  found  it  difficult  to  preserve  the  decorum 
of  the  meeting.  Nothing  was  coming  of  it  but 
jealousy  and  friction. 

A  lull  came.  They  were  back  where  they  began. 
There  was  a  reluctance  on  the  part  of  all  to  precipi 
tate  the  discussion  again.  In  the  lull,  Abraham  Lin 
coln  arose  from  his  chair,  unfolding  his  gaunt  height 
and  looking  down  at  the  assembled  men  with  a  half 
whimsical,  half  serious  expression  on  his  face. 

"Gentlemen,"  he  drawled,  "I  am  no  soldier.  I 
have  no  advice.  I  should  hardly  presume  to  offer 
it,  if  I  thought  I  was  in  possession  of  any.  I  have 


A  Message  for  the  Hawk  171 

listened  to  all  that  has  been  said,  and  it  reminds  me 
of  two  men  down  in  Kentucky  who  caught  a  'possum 
in  a  box  trap.  One  of  them  wanted  to  cut  it  up  and 
fry  it,  and  the  other  thought  it  would  be  better 
stewed.  They  got  into  a  pretty  warm  discussion 
over  it.  Finally  they  decided  that  they  would  cut 
the  animal  in  halves,  and  each  do  what  he  wanted 
with  his  part.  They  shook  hands  on  that,  and  went 
to  get  the  'possum.  When  they  opened  the  trap,  it 
was  gone.  They  had  left  the  box  a-tilt  when  they 
talked,  and  Mister  'Possum  had  squirmed  out.  Now, 
not  being  a  soldier,  there  are  things  about  the  situa 
tion  that  I  cannot  hope  to  understand,  but  to  the 
mind  of  a  civilian  it  would  seem  advisable  to  find 
Black  Hawk  before  we  chastise  him!" 

Even  Zachary  Taylor  laughed  when  Lincoln  fin 
ished  and  sat  down,  the  whimsically  serious  expres 
sion  still  on  his  face.  The  mirth  subsiding,  Lieu 
tenant  Davis  arose  to  his  feet.  He  bestowed  a  smile 
of  patronizing  indulgence  upon  the  one  who  had  just 
spoken. 

" Gentlemen, "  he  said,  "the  point  taken  by  Cap 
tain — Captain ' ' 

* '  Lincoln ! ' '  prompted  the  owner  of  the  name. 

"By  Captain  Lincoln  is  well  taken.  We  have 
only  the  most  meager  information  concerning  Black 
Hawk's  whereabouts  and  intentions.  Some  report 
him  to  be  in  the  immediate  vicinity;  others  say  he 
is  at  Koshkonong,  and  others  that  he  is  on  the 
Dalles  of  the  Ouisconsin.  If  General  Atkinson  will 


172  A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

permit  me,  I  will  go  with  a  dozen  picked  men  and 
determine  where  he  is. ' ' 

He  resumed  his  seat.  There  was  a  moment  of 
silence.  In  the  midst  of  it  the  door  of  the  room  was 
opened.  John  Dixon,  visibly  excited,  appeared, 
bringing  with  him  Mortimer  Randolph,  haggard  and 
disheveled.  He  had  come  from  Indian  Creek,  alter 
nately  riding  his  tired  horse  and  hurrying  on  foot 
with  Powhatan  stumbling  behind  him.  Now,  late  in 
the  morning,  he  had  reached  Dixon 's  with  the  news, 
leaving  Hall  behind  him  to  come  as  he  could. 

At  sight  of  him,  Jefferson  Davis  started  from 
his  chair  in  astonishment,  with  an  exclamation. 
With  the  look  of  surprise  in  his  face  was  mixed 
pleasure  and  gladness.  In  a  moment  the  gladness 
vanished,  and  he  sank  back  in  his  seat  with  a  stare 
of  doubt  and  distrust.  Mortimer,  scarcely  glancing 
at  him,  gave  his  presence  no  acknowledgment.  Pale 
and  trembling  from  fatigue  and  emotion,  he  drew 
himself  up  into  formal  military  position  and  saluted 
General  Atkinson. 

"I  have  the  honor  to  report,  sir,  that  Indians 
last  evening  attacked  and  massacred  the  settlers  at 
Indian  Creek,"  he  said,  in  the  dead  level  of  the 
military  voice.  "I  have  the  honor  to  report  that 
fifteen  men,  women,  and  children  were  killed,  and 
that  the  two  daughters  of  William  Hall,  who  was 
killed,  were  taken  away  alive  by  the  Indians." 

As  he  said  this  he  turned  toward  Lincoln,  with 
a  look  of  horror  and  anguish  on  his  face.  It  passed 


It  reminds  me  of  two  men  down  in  Kentucky  ivho 
cauglit  a  'possum  in  a  box  trap." 


A  Message  for  the  Hawk  173 

in  a  moment.  Lincoln,  oblivious  of  formality,  arose 
and  went  to  his  side,  putting  an  arm  about  his  shoul 
ders.  Jefferson  Davis  continued  to  stare,  puzzled 
and  uncertain,  with  doubt  still  in  his  mind.  A 
clamor  went  up  about  the  table;  the  militia  officers 
arose  from  their  chairs  and  crowded  around  the 
bearer  of  the  news  in  high  excitement.  General 
Atkinson,  tapping  loudly  upon  the  table,  with  the 
hilt  of  his  sword,  called  them  to  order  and  sent  them 
to  their  seats,  reminding  them  that  they  were  at  a 
council.  Motioning  Eandolph  to  a  chair,  and  wait 
ing  until  he  drank  the  glass  of  whiskey  John  Dixon 
brought  to  him,  he  formally  and  in  prescribed  man 
ner  bade  him  make  his  report  more  fully,  permitting 
him  to  remain  in  his  chair  the  while,  out  of  consid 
eration  for  his  exhausted  condition. 

Before  Mortimer  finished  a  commotion  was  heard 
in  the  camp  of  the  militia.  There  was  much  angry 
shouting,  and  cries  for  vengeance  upon  the  savages. 
William  Hall,  who  had  found  a  fresh  horse  at  a 
settlement  and  had  followed  Mortimer  closely,  had 
arrived  and  told  his  story  to  the  men.  Shouting, 
they  came  toward  headquarters,  demanding  to  be 
despatched  at  once  in  pursuit. 

Doubt  no  longer  remained  in  the  council  of  offi 
cers.  They  must  be  sent  to  the  fight  when  the  mood 
was  on  them.  Governor  Beynolds,  springing  to  his 
feet,  spoke  fervently  for  a  moment,  pleading  for 
immediate  action.  General  Atkinson  issued  a  few 
hasty  orders.  The  officers  of  militia  left  to  prepare 


174          A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

their  troops  to  march  at  once.  Lincoln,  whose  look 
of  tender  commiseration  had  never  left  the  face  of 
Mortimer,  passed  behind  his  friend  on  the  way  out 
and  pressed  a  hand  upon  his  shoulder.  The  touch 
was  more  eloquent  than  many  words. 

Mortimer  remained  at  the  table  with  General 
Atkinson,  Colonel  Taylor,  Major  Robert  Anderson 
and  Lieutenant  Davis.  The  last  named  was  still 
looking  at  him  with  a  mixture  of  eagerness  and 
reluctance,  as  though  high  regard  for  the  man  con 
tended  with  suspicion  of  him.  There  was  a  period 
of  bustle ;  orderlies  running  in  and  out,  orders  given, 
reports  made,  and  questions  asked  and  answered. 
In  the  first  lull,  Mortimer,  in  whose  face  there  was 
no  trace  of  knowledge  that  Jefferson  Davis  was 
present,  turned  toward  General  Atkinson  with 
another  salute  and  addressed  him. 

"May  I  be  permitted  to  speak,  sir?"  he  asked,  in 
a  formal  and  perfunctory  manner. 

General  Atkinson  gave  consent  with  a  nod 
befitting  his  office. 

"There  is  no  need  to  say  that  the  young  women 
who  were  abducted  by  the  Indians  are  in  precarious 
circumstances,"  he  said,  in  perfect  calm.  His 
strength  was  reviving  fast.  "It  is  not  necessary  to 
point  out  that,  should  they  escape  immediate  harm, 
their  danger  would  be  increased  if  our  soldiers 
should  press  Black  Hawk  too  closely. 

"Their  value  as  hostages  cannot  be  lost  upon  the 
chief.  May  I  be  permitted  to  carry  to  the  Hawk 


175 

official  assurance  from  General  Atkinson,  represent 
ing  the  United  States  Government,  that  in  the  event 
of  the  safe  return  of  the  young  women  he  will  be 
permitted  to  withdraw  his  band  of  Sacs  to  the  west 
ern  side  of  the  Mississippi,  without  molestation! 
That,  as  I  understand  it,  is  the  purpose  of  this 
campaign  ? ' ' 

General  Atkinson  drummed  meditatively  on  the 
table  for  a  little,  pursing  his  lips  and  cocking  his 
head.  He  was  in  two  minds  about  submitting  to  the 
effrontery  of  this  civilian,  who  had  the  audacity  to 
interfere  in  military  affairs.  Impressed  by  a  cer 
tain  unconscious  air  of  assurance  and  importance 
in  the  young  man,  he  was  finally  led  to  do  so. 

"I  think  you  are  under  some  misapprehension 
concerning  the  full  purpose  of  this  campaign,  sir," 
he  returned  at  length,  heavily.  "I  do  not  conceive 
it  to  be  within  the  intention  of  the  Government  to 
permit  the  Hawk  to  escape  just  punishment  so 
easily.  He  has  defied  the  Government  by  his  return, 
and  he  must  be  made  to  suffer  for  it." 

"Even  at  the  expense  of  innocent  and  helpless 
women  1 ' '  suggested  Mortimer,  quietly. 

"War,  sir,  war,  as  you  should  know,  is  a  deadly 
enterprise,"  rejoined  General  Atkinson.  "It 
entails  manifold  sufferings,  which  often  fall  upon 
the  innocent.  While  I  should  personally  deplore 
any  misfortunes  that  might  be  visited  upon  these 
young  women,  I  nevertheless  should  not  deem  it  con 
sistent  with  my  duty  as  an  officer  of  the  United 


176  A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

States  army  to  permit  such  considerations  to  divert 
me  from  the  purpose  of  the  campaign,  which  is 
being  prosecuted  under  direct  orders  from  the  war 
office  at  Washington/' 

11  Which  leave  you  no  discretion?"  hinted 
Mortimer. 

"None  that  I  should  care  to  exercise  in  the  pres 
ent  instance,"  made  answer  General  Atkinson,  in 
his  mighty  manner.  The  civilian  was  going  too  far 
in  his  presumption.  "I  cannot  feel  otherwise  than 
that  Black  Hawk  should  be  chastised  as  a  beneficial 
example  for  all  Indians,  without  regard  to  cost.  It 
is  establishing  a  dangerous  precedent  to  permit  him 
to  defy  openly  the  authority  of  the  United  States, 
and  with  impunity." 

Mortimer  arose  with  dignity. 

"It  is  unfortunate  that  the  chastisement  is  being 
prosecuted  in  such  a  spirit  on  the  part  of  the  Govern 
ment,"  he  said,  with  complete  equanimity  and  re 
spect.  ' '  In  view  of  the  fact  that  Black  Hawk  had  no 
intention  of  stirring  up  strife  when  he  came  across 
the  river  this  spring,  it  is  deplorable.  In  view  of  the 
fact  that  he  would  be  glad  to  lead  his  tribe  in  peace 
to  the  other  side  of  the  river  if  permitted  to  do  so, 
it  is  pitiful.  It  was  these  considerations,  as  well  as 
regard  for  the  safety  of  the  young  women,  which 
induced  me  to  make  the  suggestion  to  which  you 
have  so  kindly  listened.  Shall  I  be  permitted  to 
inquire  if  any  other  method  of  assisting  the  young 
ladies  will  be  considered?  I  am  going  personally  in 


A  Message  for  the  Hawk  177 

search  of  them,  whether  with  or  without  a  commis 
sion  from  the  authorities;  can  I  be  of  service  in 
furthering  any  plans  you  may  make  I ' ' 

His  calm  determination,  his  quiet,  unassuming 
dignity,  his  pale,  handsome  face  awoke  the  admira 
tion  of  those  who  saw  him  standing  before  General 
Atkinson,  waiting  for  his  reply.  The  look  of  distrust 
and  suspicion  went  quite  out  of  the  face  of  Jefferson 
Davis  for  a  moment.  Colonel  Zachary  Taylor,  look 
ing  at  him  searchingly,  broke  the  silence  which  had 
followed  Mortimer's  conclusion. 

"The  young  man's  idea  is  a  good  one!"  he 
exclaimed,  vehemently,  "if  you  will  let  me  say  so. 
Let  the  young  man  go  to  Black  Hawk.  How  do  you 
propose  getting  to  Black  Hawk!" 

The  colonel  fired  the  question  at  him  like  a  field 
piece. 

"I  undertake  to  find  him,  sir,"  returned  Mor 
timer,  quietly. 

"Good!"  ejaculated  the  other,  snapping  his  jaws 
and  jerking  his  head,  his  approving  eye  the  while 
resting  on  Mortimer.  "I  have  no  doubt  you  will  do 
it — if  you  will  take  the  trouble  to  eat  something 
before  you  start. ' ' 

The  young  man's  haggard  appearance  had 
caught  his  eye  at  the  same  time  with  the  square  jaw 
and  the  look  of  resolve  in  the  brown  eyes. 

"Now,  let  the  young  man  go  to  Black  Hawk," 
continued  Colonel  Taylor,  "with  the  assurance  from 
General  Atkinson  that  if  he  will  deliver  the  young 


178  A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

women  to  us  and  surrender  himself  into  the  custody 
of  the  United  States  authority,  his  people  will  be 
permitted  to  cross  west  of  the  Mississippi  without 
being  molested.  If  we  get  the  old  fox  into  custody 
and  get  his  followers  across  the  river  we  shall  have 
done  all  we  were  sent  to  do;  if  we  do  it  without 
bloodshed,  so  much  the  better.  If  this  young  man  is 
going  to  Black  Hawk,  and  I  believe  he  is" — looking 
keenly  at  him  again — "he  might  as  well  bear  such  a 
message.  No  harm  can  come  of  it.*' 

"On  what  do  you  base  a  supposition  that  he 
would  consider  such  a  proposal?"  inquired  General 
Atkinson,  with  a  trace  of  irony. 

"On  evidences  which  ought  to  be  more  or  less 
convincing  to  a  military  man,"  rejoined  Colonel 
Taylor,  with  some  heat.  "He  doesn't  want  to  fight; 
he  has  all  his  women  and  children  with  him;  he  is 
trying  to  get  them  out  of  trouble,  while  his  young 
men  are  covering  his  retreat  with  these  raids  which 
are  doing  all  the  mischief  that  is  being  done.  If  we 
can  straighten  this  matter  out  in  this  way,  we  are 
fortunate,  and  should  do  it. ' ' 

"You  make  no  account  of  those  he  has  killed 
already?"  suggested  General  Atkinson. 

"You  make  no  account  of  those  he  has  not  killed, 
but  might,"  ventured  Major  Anderson,  entering  the 
discussion.  "And  is  warfare  a  piece  of  vengeance? 
Shall  we  count  on  our  fingers  the  number  killed  by 
the  enemy  and  keep  on  fighting  until  we  have  killed 
as  many,  regardless  of  the  purposes  of  the  war  ? ' ' 


A  Message  for  the  Hawk  179 

Premonitory  nmtterings  of  a  lively  discussion 
appearing  about  the  council  board,  Mortimer  inter 
posed  before  the  storm  broke. 

" Gentlemen, "  he  said,  "I  have  no  place  at  your 
councils.  I  shall  await  your  decision  without.  I 
shall  delay  my  departure  for  an  hour.  Within  that 
time  you  may  find  me  at  your  pleasure.  I  have  only 
to  ask  that  you  will  give  me  your  personal  assur 
ances  that  the  Government  will  abide  by  whatever 
decision  you  may  reach.  I  should  not  want,  inad 
vertantly,  to  be  the  instrument  of  more  misunder 
standings  between  Black  Hawk  and  the  United 
States." 

He  withdrew  from  the  room,  not  once  glancing  in 
the  direction  of  Jefferson  Davis. 

As  he  was  seated  beside  a  table  in  John  Dixon's 
kitchen  half  an  hour  later,  finishing  the  last  of  the 
dinner  which  the  ferryman  had  brought  him,  Lieu 
tenant  Davis  came  to  him. 

"Sir,  I  have  to  report  that  you  are  requested  to 
deliver  the  enclosed  message  to  the  chief  Black 
Hawk,  at  your  pleasure  and  discretion,"  he  said  to 
Mortimer,  standing  stiffly  by  his  side. 

"Convey  my  thanks  to  your  commanding  offi 
cer,"  returned  Mortimer,  looking  over  the  contents 
of  the  order  that  the  lieutenant  had  brought.  Davis, 
ill  at  ease,  watched  him  as  he  read.  Mortimer 
nodded  his  head  approvingly  as  he  finished.  Eais- 
ing  his  face,  he  turned  it  toward  Lieutenant  Davis. 

"Was  there  anything  further?"  he  asked,  look- 


180          A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

ing  him  fully  in  the  eye,  without  the  least  trace  of 
recognition. 

"I  thought  perhaps  you  would  have  something 
to  say  to  me,"  faltered  the  other,  growing  confused 
under  the  steady  gaze. 

Mortimer  was  silent. 

"How  did  you  come  here,  Mortimer?"  burs'1; 
forth  the  lieutenant,  with  a  frank,  friendly  appeal 
in  his  voice. 

"I  should  infer  from  your  bearing  that  you  had 
heard  why  I  left  West  Point  and  Virginia,"  said 
Mortimer,  by  way  of  answer.  "I  had  to  go  some 
where,"  he  added. 

"I  can't  believe  it!"  returned  Lieutenant  Davis, 
fervently.  "I  heard,  but  can't  believe  it.  In 
Heaven's  name,  Mortimer,  tell  me  that  it  is  a 
mistake ! ' ' 

He  spoke  with  an  eager  affection,  holding  his 
right  hand  toward  the  other.  Mortimer  ignored  the 
gesture. 

"If  it  is  necessary  to  tell  you,  it  is  not  worth 
while,"  he  made  answer,  cooly.  "Kindly  commend 
me  to  your  commander,  and  tell  him  that  I  have 
read  his  orders  and  shall  endeavor  to  execute  them. ' ' 

Without  another  word,  he  turned  and  walked  to 
his  horse,  still  wearied  from  hard  traveling.  With 
out  casting  a  look  to  the  right  or  the  left  he  mounted 
and  rode  to  the  north,  leaving  Lieutenant  Davis  to 
stare  after  him  in  doubt  and  disappointment. 


CHAPTER  XIII 
SANCTUARY 

MORTIMER  RANDOLPH  rode  through  the 
night  in  the  direction  the  militia  had  taken, 
up  the  east  bank  of  the  Rock  River.  He  did  not  talk 
to  Powhatan,  as  his  custom  was,  but  rode  silently, 
revolving  many  things  in  his  mind.  Powhatan,  flick 
ing  his  ears  for  a  space  in  dutiful  attention,  and  find 
ing  him  taciturn,  gave  it  up,  rather  glad  upon  the 
whole  that  his  master  was  not  in  conversational 
mood;  for  he  himself  was  sumciently  tired  to  do 
without  discourse. 

Riding  through  the  night,  he  came  presently  to  a 
low  ridge  whence  he  could  see  the  glow  of  camp- 
fires  among  the  trees.  Approaching  close  enough  to 
determine  that  it  was  Whiteside's  men,  Mortimer 
sounded  the  army  cry  and  went  toward  them. 
Beyond  giving  back  his  cry  they  paid  little  atten 
tion  to  him,  supposing  him  to  be  some  straggler  who 
had  just  come  up  from  the  march.  As  he  came 
closer  he  saw  the  long  limbs  of  Abraham  Lincoln 
traced  black  across  the  firelight  and  his  shadow 
dancing  mournfully  in  the  tree  tops  as  he  stalked 
back  and  forth  at  a  distance  from  the  blaze.  He 
looked  like  a  grim  ghost  of  melancholy. 

Lincoln,  absorbed  in  his  own  reflections,  took  no 

181 


182          A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

more  than  passing  notice  of  the  new  arrival.  Indeed, 
he  was  not  aware  of  his  identity  until  Mortimer,  dis 
mounting  close  beside  him,  placed  a  hand  on  his  arm 
and  spoke  to  him. 

"You  frightened  me,"  said  Lincoln,  quickly, 
with  a  startled  look.  "I  was  thinking  so  much  of  you 
that  when  I  saw  you  at  my  side  I  believed  you  to  be 
a  ghost.  Why  did  you  come?  You  should  not  have 
come !  You  are  worn  out. ' ' 

He  said  nothing  of  what  was  at  the  top  of  the 
mind  of  each ;  yet  there  was  more  in  the  touch  of  his 
hand  on  the  hand  of  the  other  and  in  the  tone  of  his 
voice  than  he  could  have  spoken. 

Mortimer  made  no  reply  until  he  had  unsaddled 
and  unbridled  Powhatan  and  smoothed  his  back. 
The  animal  sighed  deeply,  rubbed  his  head  against 
his  master,  whinnied  affectionately,  and  stretched 
himself  upon  the  ground,  wholly  exhausted.  Mor 
timer,  seeing  him  comfortable,  turned  again  to 
Lincoln. 

"You  know  why  I  came,"  he  said,  replying  to 
Lincoln's  question.  "I  am  going  to  find  them.  I  am 
going  to  try  to  save  them. ' ' 

He  threw  himself  wearily  upon  the  grass. 

"How  do  you  mean?  What  are  you  going  to 
do?"  asked  Lincoln,  sitting  on  the  ground  beside 
him. 

"I  am  going  to  hunt  out  Black  Hawk,"  Mortimer 
replied.  "I  am  authorized  to  negotiate  peace  with 
him  on  the  terms  that  he  gives  up  the  young  women 


Sanctuary  183 

and  surrenders  himself  to  the  United  States  author 
ity.  I  have  written  orders  to  that  effect  from 
General  Atkinson." 

"Man,  man!"  cried  Lincoln,  "you  will  destroy 
yourself.  Do  you  expect  that  you  will  be  able  to 
reach  Black  Hawk  alive?" 

"I  must." 

* '  But  it  is  foolish !  It  is  a  wild  chance  you  take ! 
Look  at  it  soberly !  We  shall  soon  overtake  him  with 
our  troops,  and  deliver  the  young  women  from 
him." 

Mortimer  paused  before  replying.  "Do  not 
argue,"  he  said,  in  a  low  voice.  "I  am  not  disposed 
to  argue.  If  I  were,  I  could  show  you  that  it  is  the 
only  way;  that  their  lives  would  be  of  slight  value 
if  we  gave  the  Hawk  battle  when  they  were  in  his 
hands;  that  it  is  peculiarly  my  duty  and  my  priv 
ilege  to  go  to  their  succor,  and  many  other  things. 
Please  do  not  compel  me  to  the  exertion;  I  am 
weary  of  body  and  soul,  and  need  rest." 

"You  would  do  your  duty  better  if  you  did  not 
throw  your  life  away  on  a  foolish  errand, ' '  retorted 
Lincoln,  not  disposed  to  honor  his  request  against 
argument. 

Mortimer  made  no  immediate  reply.  He  lay  still 
on  the  ground  for  a  space.  Raising  himself  upon 
his  elbow  at  last,  so  that  the  light  of  the  distant 
fire  played  in  his  brown  eyes,  he  laid  a  hand  on 
Lincoln's  knee  and  looked  long  into  his  face. 

"If  Ann  Eutledge  were  in  the  hands   of  the 


184  A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

Indians,  what  would  you  do  ? "  he  said,  in  a  low  and 
solemn  voice. 

"My  God!"  groaned  Lincoln,  and  fell  silent. 

"Have  you  eaten?"  asked  Lincoln,  presently. 

"I  have  eaten,"  replied  the  other.  "To-night  I 
shall  rest,  and  to-morrow  we  shall  be  ready, 
Powhatan  and  I." 

"Will  you  come  closer  to  the  fire?  It  is  damp 
here." 

"I — I  will  stay  here,"  replied  Mortimer. 

Lincoln  understood  his  desire  to  be  alone. 

"I  will  find  you  a  blanket,"  he  said,  and  turned 
to  go  to  the  camp. 

As  he  approached  the  fire,  a  group  of  men  were 
gathering  about  it,  in  the  highest  excitement.  One 
of  them,  a  short,  round  man  with  a  short,  round 
head,  bent  over  the  blaze.  In  his  hands  he  held  a 
paper  which  he  was  reading  by  the  light  of  the 
flames.  Standing  in  the  midst  of  the  group  was  an 
Indian,  bent  and  withered  with  years.  He  watched 
with  an  anxious  face  the  man  who  read  the  paper. 

" Where 'd  you  get  this  passport?"  asked  the 
man,  looking  up  from  the  paper.  It  was  Isaac 
Frake. 

"General  Cass,  he  give  it  to  me,"  replied  the 
Indian  in  broken  English.  "He  friend  of  red  man. 
Me  friend  of  American.  Misser  Frake,  you  know 
me.  Me  good  Indian!" 

"You  bet  I  know  you!"  growled  Frake.  "This 
is  a  damned  forgery !  This  is  not  his  writing!" 


Sanctuary  185 

He  shook  the  paper  at  the  Indian.  The  red  man, 
filled  with  apprehension,  held  out  his  hand,  pointing 
at  the  passport. 

" Paper  good!  Paper  good!"  he  said.  "Paper 
no  lie ! " 

"Damn  your  hide!"  bellowed  Frake.  "You're 
a  spy ! ' ' 

He  took  a  step  toward  the  savage,  who  raised  his 
hands  helplessly. 

"Kill  him!    Kill  him!" 

A  dozen  soldiers,  raising  the  cry,  snatched  up 
their  muskets.  Frake  grasped  the  Indian  by  the 
throat. 

"We'll  show  you  what  we  do  with  spies!"  he 
roared,  cursing  horribly. 

"Shoot  him!    Kill  him!    Stand  aside,  Frake!" 

A  dozen  muskets  were  leveled.  Frake  let  go  his 
hold. 

'  *  Give  me  a  musket ! "  he  stouted,  stepping  back 
to  the  others.  " I'll  fix  him ! " 

A  soldier  handed  him  a  gun.  He  raised  it.  The 
Indian,  in  despair,  held  out  his  hands  imploringly. 
"Me  good  Indian!  Me  good  Indian!"  he  pleaded. 
"Me  friend  of  the  white  man." 

A  tall,  angular  figure  emerged  from  the  shadows 
about  the  fire.  In  a  bound,  it  stood  before  the 
Indian.  Abraham  Lincoln,  his  face  wrought  into 
fury,  his  pupils  distended  and  glittering,  faced  the 
dozen  muskets. 

"Men,  this  must  not  be  done!    He  must  not  be 


186          A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

shot  and  killed  by  us!"  His  voice  rang  above  the 
hoarse  shouting  of  the  soldiers,  the  curses  of  Frake. 

For  a  moment  the  men  stood  defiant,  their  mus 
kets  leveled  at  the  two.  They  muttered.  They 
cursed.  They  threatened.  Lincoln's  eyes,  black  with 
wrath,  fixed  theirs. 

A  fateful  silence  brooded  over  the  scene.  The 
eyes  of  the  soldiers  fell  beneath  the  steady  gaze  of 
Lincoln.  Angry  and  sullen,  they  lowered  their 
muskets. 

* '  This  is  cowardly  on  your  part,  Lincoln ! ' '  cried 
Frake. 

"If  any  man  thinks  I  am  a  coward,  let  him  test 
it!"  Lincoln's  face  was  frightful  to  look  upon. 

"You  are  larger  and  heavier  than  we!"  retorted 
the  other. 

"This  you  can  guard  against.  Choose  your 
weapons ! ' ' 

His  huge  hands  clenched  and  unclenched.  His 
face  worked  with  passion. 

Mortimer  Randolph,  aroused  by  the  disturbance, 
came  and  stood  beside  him.  Frake,  with  vile  oaths, 
glared  at  him  hatefully  for  a  moment,  and  turned 
away  muttering.  The  soldiers,  morose  and  grum 
bling,  scattered  about  the  fire,  glancing  balefully 
from  the  corners  of  their  eyes  at  the  group.  Lincoln 
stood  where  he  was  for  a  space. 

"Come,"  he  said,  presently,  addressing  the  In 
dian.  "I  will  look  out  for  you." 

They  went  away,  Mortimer  following  at  a  dis- 


Sanctuary  187 

tance,  watching  the  sulking  men  about  the  fire.  As 
they  went,  the  Indian,  pointing  to  Frake  and  gestic 
ulating,  spoke  excitedly  to  his  rescuer,  who  looked 
at  Frake  several  times  as  he  walked  away,  listening, 
and  nodded  his  head.  Eandolph  joined  them.  They 
lay  upon  the  ground  where  Mortimer  had  lain, 
Lincoln  remaining  awake  to  watch. 

Frake,  grumbling  and  boasting,  drank  deeply 
from  the  black  bottle  he  took  from  his  shirt,  and  lay 
down  by  the  fire  among  the  soldiers. 

"Our  friend  Eandolph  seems  to  love  the  Indians 
as  much  as  ever,"  he  said  to  William  Hall,  who  lay 
next  to  him,  rolled  up  in  a  blanket. 

Isaac  Frake,  standing  erect  with  the  morning 
sun  red  on  his  face,  gazed  at  the  form  of  William 
Hall,  still  sleeping  at  his  feet.  Thrice  he  nudged  him 
in  the  ribs  with  his  toe.  Hall,  not  yet  entirely  recov 
ered  from  the  fatigue  of  his  trip  from  Indian  Creek, 
rolled  over  sleepily,  with  a  grunt  and  a  curse. 

"Hall!  Hall!"  called  Frake,  when  he  stirred. 
"The  dirty  cur  has  gone!" 

Hall,  sitting  up  by  degrees,  rubbed  his  eyes  and 
yawned.  "Who's  gone?"  he  asked,  blinking. 

"Both  of  'em." 

"Both  o' who?" 

"The  Indian  and  that  man  Eandolph." 

" Where 'd  they  go!"  asked  Hall,  with  kindling 
interest. 

Frake  answered  the  question  with  silent  con- 


188          A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

tempt.  "Do  you  know  who  that  Indian  was?"  he 
asked,  in  return,  preparing  the  way  for  a  startling 
revelation. 

"Of  course  I  don't,"  rejoined  William  Hall.  "He 
seemed  to  know  you,  all  right." 

"I  know  him.  He's  from  Saukenuk,  and  one  of 
the  worst  of  the  breed.  I'll  tell  you  who  he  is.  He's 
the  father  of  that  squaw  with  the  half  breed  papoose 
that  Eandolph  was  so  sweet  on.  And  they've  gone 
together." 


CHAPTER  XIV 
IN  THE  THICKET 

A  BRAHAM  LINCOLN,  in  company  with  half  a 
-t*-  dozen  horsemen,  rode  across  the  flat  prairies 
lying  between  Dixon's  ferry  and  Galena.  It  was  a 
day  in  June.  The  sun -hung  high  in  a  brassy  sky. 
The  tall  grass  of  the  prairie  swooned  in  the  quiver 
ing  heat.  There  was  no  breath  in  the  air.  It  clung 
to  the  ground,  close  and  stifling.  Here  and  there  in 
the  distance  little  clumps  of  trees,  dark  blue  islands 
in  the  sea  of  green,  floated  in  the  shimmer  of  the 
plain.  The  horses,  drooping  their  heads,  plodded 
listlessly.  The  riders  stared  silently  at  the  ground 
before  them,  exchanging  gruff  monosyllables  now 
and  again. 

Abraham  Lincoln  was  no  longer  captain  of 
militia.  He  was  a  private  in  the  Bangers,  under 
Captain  Elisha  Fry.  The  militia  had  disbanded  in 
disgrace.  They  had  refused  to  go  further  in  pursuit 
of  Black  Hawk  than  the  Wisconsin  borders,  clamor 
ing  to  be  returned  home.  Marching  back  to  Ottawa, 
they  were  dismissed.  New  companies  were  formed 
out  of  such  as  wished  to  continue  in  the  service,  Lin 
coln  among  them.  Another  was  "William  Munson, 
frantic  over  the  predicament  of  his  sweetheart, 
Rachel  Hall.  A  third  was  William  Hall,  who  joined 

189 


190  A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

in  the  hope  of  being  of  service  to  his  sisters.  A 
fourth  was  Isaac  Frake,  for  reasons  of  his  own. 

They  were  riding  on  scout  for  troops  bound  to 
Galena  in  answer  to  urgent  calls  for  help,  following 
a  report  of  a  savage  attack  by  Black  Hawk's  war 
riors  on  the  fort  at  Apple  Eiver.  The  country  was 
in  a  ferment  of  fear.  Small  raiding  parties  of  Sacs 
were  abroad,  descending  on  isolated  settlers  at 
night,  killing  and  devastating.  The  army  gathered 
under  General  Atkinson  at  Ottawa,  now  the  army 
headquarters,  was  helpless,  not  knowing  where  to 
strike — like  the  horses  the  rangers  were  riding 
across  the  shimmering  prairies ;  it  switched  its  mili 
tary  tail  when  it  felt  the  sting  of  the  Hawk,  but 
never  got  him. 

Lincoln  and  Isaac  Frake  rode  side  by  side,  the 
latter 's  face  purple  from  the  heat  of  the  day,  his 
mouth  open  from  sheer  exhaustion.  From  time  to 
time  as  he  rode  he  stole  a  wary  glance  at  Lincoln, 
who  was  lost  in  revery.  Presently  Frake  pulled  a 
black  bottle  from  his  shirt. 

"Have  a  drink,  Captain?"  he  said,  riding  closer 
and  proffering  the  bottle.  He  still  used  the  title  as 
a  form  of  flattery. 

"No,  thank  you,  Frake;  I  never  touch  it," 
Lincoln  replied. 

"I  don't  often,"  observed  Frake,  applying  the 
bottle  to  his  lips.  "I  am  so  plumb  worn  down  by  this 
heat  that  I  need  a  little  stimulant." 


In  the  Thicket  191 

"I  didn't  suppose  it  was  very  good  in  hot 
weather,"  suggested  Lincoln. 

"It's  the  best  time  to  take  it;  it  drives  the  heat 
out,"  Frake  explained. 

1 1  Oh ! "  commented  the  other. 

"I  didn't  know  but  that  you  were  mad  about  that 
Indian  incident,  and  that  that  was  why  you  wouldn't 
take  a  drink  with  me,"  ventured  Frake,  eyeing 
Lincoln  shrewdly. 

"No,"  Lincoln  returned;  "it  would  be  the  same 
if  President  Jackson  should  ask  me  to  take  a  drink. 
I  promised  my  precious  mother  only  a  few  days 
before  she  died  that  I  would  never  use  anything 
intoxicating  as  a  beverage,  and  I  consider  that 
promise  as  binding  on  me  to-day  as  it  was  the  day 
I  made  it." 

He  was  aware  of  the  other's  sly  look.  He  sur 
mised  the  man  had  some  purpose  in  reverting  to  the 
affair,  and  sought  to  prevent  it.  Frake  persisted. 

"I  hope  you  don't  bear  any  ill  will  on  that 
account,  Captain  Lincoln,"  he  said.  "I  hope  there 
won't  be  anything  personal  resulting  from  it  be 
tween  us." 

"That  is  hardly  likely,"  Lincoln  replied.  "Of 
course,  we  form  our  opinions  of  men  more  from 
what  they  do  than  from  what  they  say ;  but  I  am  not 
one  who  bears  malice." 

He  said  it  in  a  tone  so  even  and  dispassionate 
that  Frake  studied  his  face  for  a  moment  out  of  the 
edges  of  his  eyes  before  venturing  further.  "You 


192  A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

see,"  he  said,  shortly,  "I  naturally  hate  the  Indians, 
having  been  near  them  a  good  deal,  and  this  par 
ticular  Indian  I  happen  to  know  altogether  too 
well." 

"So  I  am  informed,"  observed  Lincoln,  dryly. 

"He's  one  of  the  worst  in  the  whole  tribe," 
resumed  Frake,  eyeing  Lincoln  narrowly  after  his 
latest  remark.  "I  have  had  dealings  with  him,  and 
he  has  a  grudge  against  me. ' ' 

"Naturally,"  commented  Lincoln,  so  innocently 
that  Frake,  peeking  at  him,  was  satisfied  that  his 
interjection  was  entirely  perfunctory  and  uninten 
tional,  without  the  significance  which  it  seemed  to 
bear. 

"He'd  cut  your  throat  in  a  holy  minute,"  Frake 
went  on,  "and  he's  the  most  notorious  liar  in  the 
whole  Sac  tribe.  He's  a  spiteful  old  villain." 

"I'm  rather  glad  to  hear  that,  Frake,"  observed 
Lincoln. 

"Why?    How  so?" 

"Oh,  because  he  told  me  some  things  I  would 
not  like  to  believe  about  any  man, ' '  Lincoln  returned 
evenly,  looking  far  across  the  prairie. 

"The  cuss!"  growled  Frake. 

"I  see  you  surmise  that  he  was  talking  about 
you,"  Lincoln  remarked. 

"Of  course,  I  knew  he  would,"  returned  Frake, 
a  little  disconcerted  for  the  moment,  but  neverthe 
less  pleased  to  have  wormed  this  much  out  of  the 


In  the  Thicket  193 

man  at  his  side.  "What  did  he  tell  you,  now,  just 
for  curiosity?" 

"Oh,  well,  Frake,"  returned  Lincoln,  laughing; 
"I  guess  I  won't  tell  you.  I  don't  want  to  see  you 
get  mad  on  a  hot  day  like  this,  and  now  that  you 
have  told  me  that  he  is  an  enemy  of  yours  and  that 
he  is  an  awful  liar,  I  will  know  how  to  take  his 
tales." 

There  was  a  possibility  of  a  double  meaning  in 
the  reply  which  did  not  rest  easily  on  Frake 's  mind, 
but  there  was  something  final  about  the  other's 
laughing  manner  of  putting  him  off  that  he  was 
shrewd  enough  to  profit  by.  He  pursued  the  subject 
no  further,  contenting  himself  with  a  shrewd  inspec 
tion  of  his  companion's  face,  from  the  ingenuous 
expression  of  which  he  was  unable  to  infer  whether 
he  had  in  any  measure  accomplished  his  purpose  of 
counteracting  whatever  of  evil  report  the  other 
might  have  heard  of  him.  In  fact,  he  was  consider 
ably  disturbed,  and  drew  forth  the  black  bottle 
again. 

"I  don't  feel  well  to-day,  Captain  Lincoln,"  he 
said,  fulsomely  clinging  to  the  title.  "If  you  don't 
mind  I  think  I'll  take  another  little  pull." 

Lincoln  did  not  mind,  and  intimated  as  much  by 
a  slight  nod  of  the  head.  They  rode  in  silence  for  a 
space,  Frake  conning  the  other's  face  quizzically 
from  time  to  time. 

"Funny  where  Kandolph  has  gone  to,  isn't  it?" 
he  submitted  presently. 


194          A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

"Why?"  Lincoln's  face  was  imperturbable,  im 
penetrable. 

"Nobody  seems  to  have  heard  from  him  since 
that  morning  when  he  disappeared  with  the  In 
dian,"  observed  Frake,  a  sly  suggestion  in  his  tone. 

"Nobody  but  you  seems  to  have  expected  to  hear 
from  him, ' '  rejoined  Lincoln,  indifferently.  Another 
silence. 

"Don't  it  seem  strange  to  you  for  him  to  go  off 
with  an  Indian  like  that?"  asked  Frake,  presently, 
with  crafty  insinuation. 

"If  I  considered  it  my  affair  sufficiently  to  ask 
him  about  it,  he  no  doubt  could  give  me  a  reason 
that  would  not  make  it  seem  strange,  if  it  should 
happen  to  appear  so  in  the  first  place,"  returned 
Lincoln.  "Perhaps  he  was  influenced  by  a  desire 
to  protect  the  man's  life  against  some  of  his  old 
neighbors." 

"I  happen  to  know  that  that  old  Indian  was  a 
pretty  good  friend  of  his,"  retorted  Frake,  nettled 
by  the  last  fling. 

"Was  he?"  asked  Lincoln,  lackadaisically.  "I 
should  imagine  they  would  be  good  friends  before 
they  parted,  at  least,"  he  added. 

1 1  Do  you  know  this  man  Randolph  pretty  well  ? ' ' 
Frake  went  on,  still  maintaining  his  tone  of  innu 
endo. 

' '  Better  than  I  know  any  man, ' '  Lincoln  replied, 
speaking  half  to  himself. 

"Is  that  so,"  returned  Frake,  with  a  tinge  of 


In  the  Thicket  195 

sarcasm  in  his  tone.  "Why,  I  didn't  know  he  had 
been  in  Illinois  long  enough  for  that." 

He  intended  to  convey  weighty  meaning  in  his 
tone.  He  intended  to  impute  a  dark  and  mysterious 
past  to  Randolph.  Lincoln  heeded  only  the  meaning 
of  his  words. 

"It  don't  always  take  a  long  time  to  know  a 
man,  Frake,"  he  replied.  "I  haven't  seen  you  more 
than  once  or  twice,  and  still  I  think  I  know  you 
pretty  well.  Don't  you?" 

He  looked  frankly  at  Frake  in  saying  it. 

"I  hope  you  do!  I  hope  you  do!"  Frake  made 
answer,  looking  straight  ahead.  The  quickness  of 
his  reply  was  not  immodesty.  It  was  lack  of  finesse. 
He  perceived  the  innuendo  in  Lincoln's  question, 
and  sought  to  nullify  it  by  his  reply.  He  overdid  it, 
and  knew  that  he  had  overdone  it  when  he  saw  the 
quiet  mirth  in  the  depths  of  the  other's  eyes.  It  was 
necessary,  however,  to  proceed  to  the  end  of  what 
he  had  so  obviously  set  afoot.  He  went  on,  conceal 
ing  his  discomfiture. 

"Do  you  know  what  I  think?"  he  said,  looking 
Lincoln  freely  in  the  eye  for  the  first  time,  with  the 
steady  gaze  of  one  who  hopes  to  deceive. 

"Well,  Frake,  perhaps  I  do,  in  a  general  way," 
drawled  Lincoln. 

"What  do  I  think?"  demanded  the  other,  pounc 
ing  upon  Lincoln  with  the  question. 

"You  must  be  a  little  more  precise,  Frake," 
Lincoln  replied. 


196          A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

Frake  laughed  heartily,  making  out  that  he  had 
achieved  an  advantage  in  repartee.  He  laughed  a 
little  too  heartily  to  produce  any  effect  of  mirth- 
fulness. 

"What  do  you  think?"  Lincoln  interrupted  him 
in  the  midst  of  his  laughter. 

"Oh,  you  don't  know,  then?  Well,  I'll  tell  you, 
seeing  that  you  don't  know" — he  was  making  the 
most  he  could  of  it — "I  think  that  we  are  apt  to  run 
across  this  friend  of  yours  when  we  get  up  amongst 
the  Indians!"  He  said  it  with  an  air  that  should 
have  been  overwhelming  in  implications. 

Lincoln,  looking  afar  off  across  the  prairies, 
made  answer  slowly.  "I  am  rather  inclined  to  think 
so  myself,"  he  said. 

Again  there  was  warning  conveyed  to  the  man 
that  an  end  had  been  reached  of  safe  discussion. 
Again  Frake,  with  discernment  enough  to  perceive 
it,  fell  into  silence.  When  he  broke  it  again  it  was  to 
say  casually,  with  an  air  of  easy  familiarity : 

"Do  you  think  the  reward  will  do  any  good?" 

Lincoln,  in  a  fit  of  abstraction,  absently  inquired 
what  reward  he  meant.  He  meant  the  reward  of  a 
thousand  dollars  offered  by  Governor  Eeynolds  for 
the  safe  return  of  the  Hall  girls,  of  course.  He  did 
not  omit  to  dissert  upon  the  part  he  had  played  in 
inducing  Eeynolds  to  offer  it.  Lincoln  ventured  no 
opinion.  Whereupon  Frake  fell  into  an  analysis  of 
the  question,  pointing  out  that  if  they  were  in  the 
hands  of  Mike  Girty  and  the  Pottowatomies  the 


In  the  Thicket  197 

chances  were  pretty  good,  but  that  if  Black  Hawk 
had  them  he  would  keep  them  as  hostages,  and  might 
even  kill  them  in  case  the  whites  pressed  him  too 
close.  To  all  of  which  Lincoln  paid  no  heed  what 
ever,  so  that  Frake  presently  passed  again  into 
silence  and  fell  to  reviewing  the  late  conversation, 
with  many  doubts  and  misgivings  concerning  it. 

Crossing,  late  in  the  afternoon,  through  a  strip 
of  timber  that  fringed  a  creek,  they  emerged  upon  a 
beautiful  rolling  prairie  a  few  miles  in  breadth, 
beyond  which  lay  Kellogg 's  Grove,  a  large  clump  of 
woods  that  was  the  site  of  a  settlement.  The  sun 
was  low  in  the  west  as  they  approached  it.  The 
woods  were  close  and  dense.  The  shadows  of  the 
afternoon  thickened  in  their  depths.  It  was  gloomy 
and  forbidding  to  those  who  knew  that  there  were 
Indians  about,  and  that  they  drew  closer  to  a  lurking 
foe  with  every  step  they  took  northward.  One  by 
one  those  who  were  with  Lincoln  lagged  behind.  He 
rode  ahead,  accompanied  only  by  Frake.  They  came 
within  a  hundred  yards;  fifty  yards.  Frake  was 
clearly  nervous. 

"Captain!"  he  said,  "I've  got  to  stop  a  minute. 
My  girth  is  loose.  Don't  wait  for  me;  you  go  right 
on.  I'll  catch  up." 

"Why  don't  you  wait  until  you  get  into  the 
shade,  where  it  is  cooler,"  Lincoln  suggested,  with 
a  grim  smile.  Frake  made  no  answer.  Lincoln 
entered  the  edge  of  the  grove  alone.  His  own  heart 
beat  faster  as,  with  keen  eyes  and  listening  ears,  he 


198          A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

passed  among  the  trees  into  the  shadows.  It  is  the 
greatest  courage  that  takes  men  where  they  fear 
to  go. 

More  slowly  now,  with  cautious  glances  that 
searched  every  tree-trunk,  every  thicket,  he  rode 
into  the  midst  of  the  forest.  His  companions  strag 
gled  behind  him,  pale,  with  lips  set.  Last  and  palest 
of  them  was  Isaac  Frake.  Lincoln  brought  his  horse 
to  a  walk.  With  gun  ready,  he  rode  on.  Each  wav 
ing  branch,  stirred  by  the  afternoon  breeze,  caught 
his  eye  and  sent  the  blood  coursing  swiftly. 

There  was  no  sound  save  the  soft  fall  of  the 
horses '  feet  upon  the  mold ;  the  evening  song  of  the 
robin,  the  call  of  the  cat-bird  in  the  bushes.  The  red 
sun  streaked  among  the  stems  of  the  trees;  the 
leaves  rustled  aloft  in  the  dying  breeze.  The  peace 
of  nature  was  upon  the  world. 

A  path  led  through  a  little  swale.  The  bushes 
came  close  to  it,  creeping  down  from  the  rising 
ground  on  either  side.  Midway  through  the  swale, 
Lincoln  glanced  at  those  behind,  to  make  sure  that 
they  were  coming  before  he  proceeded  farther.  His 
eyes  fell  upon  the  face  of  Frake,  some  rods  behind. 
He  was  looking  fixedly  to  the  right  of  the  path. 
With  his  hand  he  was  making  signs,  evidently  in 
reply  or  command.  Lincoln,  following  his  gaze, 
saw  a  movement  in  the  brush;  he  saw  the  form 
of  a  small,  slouching  Indian  for  an  instant;  caught 
sight  of  a  weazened  face  in  which  the  eyes  were  set 
too  close  together  and  the  thin  nose  was  awry. 


In  the  Thicket  199 

Almost  in  the  instant  of  his  seeing  the  form  it 
was  gone. 

Shouting  to  his  companions,  he  turned  his  horse 
and  dashed  through  the  brush  upon  the  rise  of 
ground  which  bordered  the  swale.  The  sight  that 
met  his  eyes  there  turned  him  sick.  Five  bodies  lay 
upon  the  ground,  motionless,  about  the  remains  of  a 
camp  fire.  On  all  hands  were  signs  of  a  struggle; 
trampled  ground,  broken  guns,  torn  pieces  of 
clothing,  scattered  camp  equipment. 

Lincoln,  forgetting  the  Indian  he  had  seen  in  the 
sudden  dread  possessing  him  at  sight  of  the  slain 
men,  leaped  from  his  horse  and  ran  to  the  body  that 
was  closest.  The  red  sun  shone  red  upon  a  raw  and 
bloody  spot  on  the  top  of  the  head,  where  the  victim 
had  been  scalped.  The  man  lay  upon  his  face.  Shud 
dering,  Lincoln  turned  him  until  he  could  look  upon 
the  features.  It  was  not  he  whom  he  dreaded  it  was. 
From  one  to  the  other  he  went,  hope  and  apprehen 
sion  contending  in  his  heart.  There  was  not  one 
whom  he  knew. 

He  finished  his  ghastly  inspection,  and  looked 
up.  The  van  of  the  force  bustled  about  him,  in  a 
fever  of  excitement  and  alarm.  Frake,  loudly 
exclaiming,  made  much  ado.  In  his  face  there  was 
no  sign  of  what  had  taken  place,  observed  by  Lin 
coln.  Lincoln,  on  the  point  of  denouncing  and  ex 
posing  him,  reconsidered,  and  held  his  peace.  His 
suspicions  of  the  man  were  keen.  What  he  planned 
and  plotted  he  could  hardly  surmise,  but  he  should 


200  A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

have  a  better  chance  of  discovery  if  the  other  were 
unaware  of  his  suspicion.  Arguing  thus  with  him 
self,  Lincoln  held  his  tongue,  even  apparently  per 
mitting  the  soldiers  to  convince  him  that  his  alarm 
had  been  false,  and  that  he  had  seen  no  Indian.  This 
the  men  were  sufficiently  desirous  of  believing,  for 
their  own  peace  of  mind. 

Anxious  for  the  safety  of  the  settlers,  the  expe 
dition  hastened  to  the  cabins  in  the  center  of  the 
grove,  stopping  later  to  give  the  dead  rough  burial. 
The  buildings  were  deserted.  There  was  no  sign 
that  they  had  been  attacked  or  molested  by  the  sav 
ages.  The  commander,  conferring  with  his  lieuten 
ants,  decided  to  remain  there  for  the  night,  for 
darkness  was  coming  on,  and  travel  at  night  was 
hazardous. 

Their  supper  was  finished.  The  full  moon,  rising 
in  the  sky,  mellowed  the  dark  shadows  of  the  woods. 
The  men,  lying  on  the  ground  in  the  pleasant  even 
ing,  revived  in  spirits.  One  of  them  called  for 
Lincoln. 

11  What's  the  matter  with  Abe  to-night?  "Why 
don't  he  tell  us  a  story?" 

Lincoln,  standing  concealed  in  the  shadow  of  a 
house,  made  no  response.  His  eyes  were  fixed  on  a 
point  in  the  woods,  in  the  direction  whence  they  had 
come.  Passing  there  among  the  trees,  leaving  the 
camp,  was  a  shadow ;  the  shadow  of  a  man.  Watch 
ing  him  for  a  space,  Lincoln  stole  from  the  obscurity 


In  the  Thicket  201 

where  he  stood  through  other  shadows,  and  so  to  the 
place  where  the  retreating  figure  had  disappeared. 

He  traced  his  way  among  the  trees,  slipping 
from  one  to  another,  always  in  the  shadow,  avoiding 
the  branches  that  lay  upon  the  ground,  silent  and 
stealthy.  From  time  to  time  he  paused  to  listen. 
Ahead  of  him,  through  the  woods,  he  heard  the  low, 
sharp  crackling  of  twigs,  the  crushing  of  mold 
beneath  the  foot  of  some  one  who  passed.  He  fol 
lowed  the  noise.  At  times  he  could  see  the  figure  of 
the  man  he  followed,  stealing  through  the  patches  of 
moonlight,  from  tree  to  tree.  At  times  the  sound  of 
the  other's  steps  ceased,  and  he  stopped,  that  his 
approach  might  not  be  heard. 

The  man  worked  toward  the  edge  of  the  grove, 
toward  a  point  to  the  right  of  the  trail  by  which  they 
had  come ;  toward  a  point  in  the  direction  of  which 
the  Indian  had  vanished.  The  glow  of  the  moonlight 
on  the  prairie  beyond  began  to  show  between  the 
trunks  of  the  trees.  The  smell  of  the  grass  reached 
Lincoln's  nostrils.  The  rasping  of  the  insects  in  the 
field  was  loud  in  his  ears.  He  saw  the  shadow  of  the 
man  against  the  moon-glow.  He  heard  him  push 
ing  gently  through  some  brush.  The  noise  of  the 
footsteps  ceased. 

Now  he  who  follows  must  travel  without  noise  on 
such  an  adventure.  Lincoln's  progress  was  slow. 
Through  such  places  as  were  not  illuminated  by  the 
moon,  he  felt  his  way,  lest  he  tread  on  a  branch  and 
be  heard.  Tediously  he  approached  the  place  where 


202          A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

the  man  had  disappeared.  He  was  close  to  the  edge 
of  the  grove.  He  paused  once  more  to  listen.  The 
rasping  of  the  insects  on  the  prairie  was  louder.  A 
night-hawk  cried  at  intervals  overhead,  leaving  the 
silence  the  more  intense  for  his  cries.  Hushful 
noises  filled  the  night. 

As  he  listened,  out  of  the  murmuring  stillness 
came  a  voice;  a  sharp,  snarling,  cracked  voice;  it 
came  from  a  clump  of  bushes  close  at  his  right  hand. 
In  an  instant  it  was  smothered.  Pausing  a  moment 
longer  to  compose  himself,  Lincoln,  with  bated 
breath,  crept  silently  in  the  direction  whence  he  had 
heard  it. 

He  crept  along  the  edge  of  a  clump  of  bushes. 
He  found  himself  on  a  slight  bank  bordering  the  bed 
of  a  rivulet,  now  dry.  Thickets  enclosed  it  on  both 
sides,  save  for  the  space  through  which  he  had 
approached.  The  bushes  did  not  reach  a  sufficient 
height  to  shut  out  the  moonlight,  which  filled  the  tiny 
hollow.  He  could  see  distinctly. 

Sitting  beneath  the  bank,  with  their  backs  toward 
him,  so  close  that  he  might  have  reached  them  with 
his  long  arm,  were  Frake  and  an  Indian.  Lincoln 
knew  him  by  his  stature,  his  slinking  posture,  his 
dried-up  face,  as  the  native  he  had  seen  in  the 
bushes.  The  savage,  whose  face  he  could  not  see, 
clutched  in  his  hand  a  bottle,  with  which  he  made 
feeble,  drunken  menace  at  his  companion. 

Frake  paid  no  heed  to  the  empty  threat.  One 
hand  grasped  the  Indian  by  the  nape  of  the  neck  and 


In  the  Thicket  203 

shook  his  head  from  side  to  side  persuasively.  The 
other  was  shut  tight  over  the  Indian's  mouth. 

"Shut  up,  you  fool!"  growled  Frake,  under  his 
breath.  "You  want  to  get  us  both  in  trouble? 
They're  apt  to  be  looking  for  me  any  minute." 

The  Indian,  brandishing  the  bottle  more,  mum 
bled  something  between  Frake 's  fingers  that  Lincoln 
could  not  hear. 

"I  tell  you  I  have  not  got  any  more  whiskey!" 
Frake  replied,  still  whispering.  "I've  given  you  all 
I  had  now.  I'll  have  to  go  without  myself,  curse 
your  skin!  You  get  those  girls  for  me  and  I'll  give 
you  a  barrel  of  whiskey  and  half  the  money  for  their 
return.  That'll  be  enough  to  keep  you  in  firewater 
till  it  rots  a  hole  through  your  pesky  hide.  If  you 
hadn't  been  fool  enough  to  let  Black  Hawk  get  hold 
of  them,  you  'd  have  had  it  by  this  time." 

Frake  removed  his  hand  from  the  Indian's 
mouth. 

"What  could  Half  Ear  do?"  whined  the  red 
skin.  "Mike  Girty  was  chief;  Mike  Girty  afraid  of 
Black  Hawk ;  Mike  Girty  give  white  squaws  to  him. 
Half  Ear  could  not  help  it." 

"You're  no  good,  Half  Ear!"  returned  the  other, 
contemptuously.  "You  always  go  back  on  me.  You 
let  that  red-headed  paleface  get  away  from  you  the 
morning  before  you  went  to  get  the  girls,  and  then 
you  let  the  girls  get  away  from  you !  See  to  it  that 
you  do  better  this  time,  or,  by  the  Lord,  I  '11 
turn  you  over  to  White  Beaver  and  have  you  strung 


204          A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

up.  And,  say,  Half  Ear ! ' '  added  the  white  man,  in 
an  afterthought;  ''look  out  for  the  red-head.  He 
has  left  the  army  and  is  prowling  around  somewhere 
looking  for  the  girls,  I  reckon.  He  wants  one  of 
them;  the  yellow-haired  one.  If  you  see  him,  you 
know  what  to  do.  There's  a  half  barrel  in  that  for 
you,  too."  ? 

"Half  Ear  had  no  firewater  that  day,"  returned 
the  Indian,  looking  wistfully  at  the  white.  "Half 
Ear  cannot  shoot  straight  when  he  no  has  whiskey!" 

"I  tell  you,  I  have  n't  any  more  whiskey,"  Frake 
snarled,  interpreting  the  other's  look. 

Half  Ear  put  the  empty  bottle  unsteadily  to  his 
lips  and  held  it  inverted  for  a  long  time,  sucking  the 
tainted  air  into  his  mouth.  Frake  leered  at  him 
while  he  did  it. 

"Now,  then,  Half  Ear,  I  got  to  dig  out  of  this," 
he  said,  when  the  Indian  finally  put  the  bottle  down ; 
he  knew  how  little  chance  there  was  of  getting  his 
attention  before  he  put  it  down,  empty  though  it 
was.  "You've  got  it  all  straight,  have  you?  You're 
to  get  the  girls  from  Black  Hawk  any  way  you  can. 
You  're  to  bring  them  down  here  without  saying  a 
word  to  anyone  about  it.  Bight  here!"  he  empha 
sized.  "Not  to  Dixon's,  or  Ottawa,  or  Galena,  or 
Fort  Armstrong,  or  anywhere  else,  but  right  here! 
When  you  are  here,  you  are  to  cut  down  that  little 
beech  sapling  out  there  on  the  edge,  at  the  mouth  of 
this  dry  creek" — he  indicated  the  place  with  his 
hand  as  Half  Ear  listlessly  turned  his  head  to  look — 


In  the  Thicket  205 

"and  I  '11  happen  along.  I  '11  be  around  here  until 
you  show  up — and  then  you  '11  turn  'em  over  to  me. 
And  there  's  a  barrel  of  whiskey  in  it  for  you. 
You  Ve  got  it  all  clear,  have  you!  A  barrel  of 
whiskey;  and  if  you  bring  me  a  certain  red-haired 
scalp,  there  's  a  barrel  and  a  half!  But  you  need  n't 
bring  me  any  but  the  right  one,  'cause  I  can  tell; 
you  can't  fool  me  on  that  hair!  And  if  you  say  a 
word  to  them  about  Raven  Hair,  I  '11  kill  you! 
Hear?" 

The  Indian  nodded  and  rolled  his  head  drunk- 
enly,  assuring  the  other  that  he  knew  what  was 
expected  of  him. 

"Half  Ear  will  do  it,"  he  mumbled. 

"Come,  now,  you'd  better  make  yourself  scarce," 
the  white  added.  "It'd  be  a  pretty  mess  if  you  got 
caught  here  now!" 

The.  Indian  staggered  to  his  feet.  The  two  made 
their  way  slowly  down  the  bed  of  the  creek  to  the 
edge  of  the  grove.  Lincoln  could  see  them  outlined 
at  last  against  the  glow  of  the  moon  on  the  prairie. 
Once  at  the  edge,  they  separated  and  went  in 
opposite  directions,  keeping  at  the  edge  of  the  grove. 

Lincoln  waited  until  the  sound  of  their  soft  steps 
had  died  into  stillness.  Pondering  many  things,  he 
arose  and  returned  to  the  camp. 


CHAPTER  XV 

THE  CAPTURE 

JUNE!  A  blue  sky,  bending  over  a  solitude, 
unmarked  of  man;  a  glowing  sun  looking  down 
upon  inviolate  nature;  the  warmth  of  brimming 
summer  in  the  soft  air ;  lush  grass  ripening  sweet  on 
the  unbroken  prairies ;  shooting  stars  a-twinkling  in 
the  breezes ;  violets,  coquetting  with  the  sky,  blue  as 
themselves,  from  the  depths  of  the  cool  grass.  Wild 
strawberries  reddening  beside  them.  Larks  flutter 
ing  to  their  nests  with  songs  tinkling  in  their 
throats;  bobolinks  whistling  on  the  waving  sun 
flowers.  It  was  surely  June. 

In  the  midst  of  it,  a  strip  of  woods  fringing  the 
banks  of  a  river ;  fresh,  soft  verdure  of  new  leaves, 
awakened  from  dreams  of  life  by  the  caresses  of  the 
winds;  the  song  of  the  robin  and  the  thrush,  the 
scolding  of  the  squirrel  in  the  branches  above;  the 
call  of  the  cat-bird  from  the  thicket,  the  twittering 
of  small  warblers  in  the  bushes;  through  the  heart 
of  it  the  river,  flowing  softly  between  its  wooded 
banks ;  teeming  life  in  utter  solitude. 

Alone  in  the  solitude  a  man  was  seated  on  a 
fallen  tree  by  the  bank  of  the  river.  Behind  him 
stood  a  horse,  his  nose  resting  on  his  master's 
shoulder.  The  face  of  the  man  was  haggard,  drawn, 

206 


The  Capture  207 

pinched  by  hunger,  pale  and  anxious.  His  eyes — 
deep  brown  eyes — were  fixed  abstractedly  upon  the 
softly  flowing  water.  Such  was  the  setting  and  such 
the  scene  on  the  banks  of  a  river  in  Northern 
Illinois  on  a  day  in  June;  a  day  shortly  after  that 
when  Abraham  Lincoln  rode  by  day  and  prowled 
by  night. 

Mortimer  Eandolph,  half  arousing  himself  from 
his  abstraction,  raised  his  hand  and  stroked  the  nose 
of  the  horse. 

"Powhatan,"  he  said,  deliberating  as  he  spoke, 
"we're  on  the  wrong  track.  We  don't  seem  to  be 
very  good  at  this  trick  of  trailing.  I  don't  think  we 
have  been  following  Black  Hawk's  party  at  all.  I 
think  we  have  been  chasing  rovimg  bands  of  raiders 
all  this  time.  We  don't  want  to  see  any  raiders, 
Powhatan.  We  want  to  see  Black  Hawk  first  of  all ; 
so  I  think  we'll  cut  right  across  for  Ouisconsin  and 
hunt  him  out." 

The  horse  nuzzled  closer  into  the  hand  that 
stroked  it,  drooping  and  dozing  listlessly.  The  man 
fell  into  thoughtful  mood  again.  For  a  long  time 
they  remained  silent  and  motionless,  lending  them 
selves  to  the  solitude.  Presently  the  horse,  with  a 
low  whinny,  raised  his  head  quickly  and  looked 
through  the  trees  and  across  the  prairie  over  which 
they  had  just  come  from  the  south.  His  ears  were 
pricked  and  flicking  nervously;  he  sniffed  the  air 
eagerly,  whinnying  again.  The  man  arose  from  the 


208          A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

fallen  tree  where  he  sat  and  followed  the  gaze  of 
the  horse. 

Debouching  upon  the  prairie  from  a  patch  of 
timber  two  miles  away  and  coming  toward  them  was 
a  band  of  horsemen.  They  were  at  such  a  distance 
that  Mortimer  could  not  make  out  whether  they 
were  whites  or  Indians.  He  studied  them  closely 
for  a  space.  They  rode  swiftly,  apparently  follow 
ing  and  observing  the  trail  over  which  he  and  Pow- 
hatan  had  just  come.  Glancing  quickly  about  in 
reconnaissance  of  the  topography,  Mortimer  drew 
Powhatan  beside  him  and  mounted. 

Turning  the  horse  into  the  river,  he  directed  him 
down  the  current,  making  what  haste  he  could 
through  the  water,  keeping  close  watch  meanwhile 
upon  those  who  were  riding  up.  A  few  rods  below 
where  he  entered  the  water,  on  the  side  of  the 
stream  from  which  the  strange  body  of  men  were 
approaching,  lay  a  long,  low  hill,  extending  about 
two  hundred  yards  along  the  bank.  For  part  of  that 
distance  it  came  quite  close  to  the  river,  itself  form 
ing  the  bank.  In  some  places  there  were  tables  or 
shelves  between  the  river  and  the  hill. 

Beaching  the  hill  before  he  was  able  to  determine 
the  identity  of  the  horsemen,  he  decided  to  ride 
through  the  water  to  the  other  end  of  it  and  observe 
them  thence.  By  the  time  he  reached  the  point 
they  would  be  sufficiently  close.  If  they  proved  to 
be  Indians  on  his  trail,  he  could  swing  around  the 
further  end  of  the  hill  when  they  passed  the  end  he 


The  Capture  209 

had  quitted,  and  leave  in  the  direction  whence  they 
came,  keeping  the  hill  between  himself  and  them. 
By  the  time  they  should  find  his  tracks  leaving  the 
water,  he  would  have  acquired  a  long  start.  For  the 
rest,  Powhatan  was  sufficient. 

With  this  plan  in  mind,  he  passed  behind  the 
ridge,  which  shut  out  from  his  view  those  who  came 
across  the  prairie.  The  stream  narrowed  abreast  of 
the  hill.  The  water  grew  deeper,  retarding  their 
progress.  Mortimer  could  hear  the  rumble  of  the 
horses '  feet  afar  off  on  the  sod  of  the  prairie.  Pow 
hatan  picked  his  way  between  the  deeper  pools, 
silent  and  alert.  They  gained  the  end  of  the  hill. 
The  sound  of  hoofbeats  ceased.  Mortimer  dis 
mounted.  Leaving  Powhatan  close  under  the  corner 
of  the  hill,  where  he  could  not  be  seen  either  from 
the  strip  of  woods  or  the  crossing  at  its  upper 
end,  he  crept  through  the  brush  to  the  top,  and 
looked  out. 

The  band  had  stopped.  They  were  clustered 
together  at  the  edge  of  the  woods,  consulting  among 
themselves.  Because  of  the  intervening  brush,  he 
could  not  yet  determine  whether  they  were  Indians 
or  whites.  He  waited.  The  horsemen  scattered, 
forming  a  long  line  at  the  fringe  of  the  timber, 
extending  far  enough  to  envelop  the  hill.  As  they 
came  to  their  positions  opposite  him,  he  saw  that 
they  were  redskins.  They  had  suspected  his 
strategy. 

One  of  their  number,  a  tall  young  brave  directly 


210          A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

in  front  of  him,  raised  his  hand  for  a  signal.  The 
line  advanced  slowly  through  the  trees,  with  guns 
and  bows  ready,  their  glances  piercing  the  woods. 
In  the  moment  of  their  starting  Mortimer  recog 
nized  in  the  one  who  gave  the  signal  and  who  came 
most  directly  toward  him,  the  young  brave  whom 
he  had  seen  on  the  top  of  Black  Hawk's  Watchtower 
at  Saukenuk  the  year  before,  whose  fingers  had 
then  been  about  Frake's  throat,  who  had  come  with 
the  flag  of  truce,  and  whom  he  had  thrown  from  his 
horse  at  Old  Man's  Creek  to  save  the  life  of  Frake. 
They  were  to  meet  now  for  the  fourth  time. 

For  a  moment  he  hesitated,  considering  whether 
to  throw  himself  upon  the  generosity  of  the  brave 
whom  he  had  served  at  Saukenuk,  and  relying  upon 
his  gratitude.  In  the  next  moment  the  incident  in 
the  fight  at  Old  Man's  Creek  came  before  his  mind, 
and  he  decided  against  the  risk.  He  must  see  Black 
Hawk  before  he  was  seen  by  any  Sacs.  He  would 
trust  all  to  Powhatan.  He  crept  down  the  hill  to 
where  he  had  left  the  horse. 

Powhatan  was  not  there. 

'  *  Powhatan !  Powhatan ! "  he  called,  softly. 

From  behind  an  elbow  of  the  hill  to  his  left  came 
an  answering  whinny,  quickly  smothered  as  though 
a  hand  were  placed  over  the  animal's  nostrils.  With 
silent  step  he  hastened  to  the  elbow  and  peered 
around  it  through  the  bushes.  On  a  little  shelf 
between  the  high  ground  and  the  water  were  a  half 
dozen  Sacs,  hideous  in  war  paint.  Two  of  them  held 


The  Capture  211 

Powhatan,  who  was  struggling  to  throw  them  off. 
One  of  the  two  had  his  hands  on  the  horse's  nose. 
It  was  Half  Ear. 

Mortimer  had  no  sooner  seen  the  Indians  than 
their  quick  eyes  detected  him  in  the  brush.  They 
had  heard  his  call,  and  were  alert.  Before  they 
made  a  motion  to  fire  upon  him  or  take  him,  he 
passed  around  the  bushes  and  approached  them, 
making  the  sign  of  peace,  extending  the  musket 
before  him  on  open,  upturned  palms.  For  the  slight 
chance  of  his  own  life  he  would  have  fought  them 
all;  but  more  than  his  own  life  depended  upon  his 
living. 

''I  come  in  peace,"  he  said.  "Is  there  one  of 
you  who  speaks  English!" 

Half  Ear,  letting  go  his  hold  on  Powhatan  for 
an  instant,  leveled  his  musket  and  fired  at  Mortimer. 
That  was  the  English  he  had  learned  of  late.  At 
the  instant  he  pulled  the  trigger,  Powhatan,  rearing, 
struck  the  musket  out  of  aim.  The  ball  knocked 
Mortimer's  hat  from  his  head,  doing  him  no  hurt. 

Powhatan,  pawing  and  biting,  broke  fully  away 
from  the  one  Indian  who  held  him  when  Half  Ear 
let  go  to  fire,  and  came  to  the  side  of  his  master. 
The  Indians,  screaming  their  war  cry,  pressed 
toward  him.  He  was  so  close  among  them  that  they 
could  not  fire  without  danger  of  hitting  their  friends. 
They  came  with  clubbed  guns  and  hatchets  and 
knives,  bristling  about  him.  His  offer  of  peace  had 


212  A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

been  received  as  their  own  truce  had  been  on  a  time 
which  he  too  well  remembered. 

The  one  slim  chance  must  be  taken.  All  about 
him  was  raging  fury.  The  line  of  approaching  sav 
ages  was  already  breaking  out  along  the  crest  of 
the  hill.  With  one  leap  he  was  astride  Powhatan's 
back.  Half  Ear,  green  eyed  with  wrath  and  hatred, 
was  at  the  horse's  head  again,  clutching  at  the  bit 
with  a  tenacity  and  courage  new  to  him.  Powhatan 
pawed  and  reared;  Half  Ear  clung.  His  name 
might  then  have  justly  been  Blue  Wolf,  as  it  was  in 
the  beginning,  before  he  knew  the  whites. 

Mortimer,  striking  about  him  with  his  knife  to 
keep  off  his  assailants,  reserving  his  fire  for  the  last 
extremity,  saw  Half  Ear  clinging  to  Powhatan.  He 
pointed  his  gun  at  the  Indian  and  pulled  the  trig 
ger.  A  sluggish  puff  of  smoke  rose  from  the  firing 
pan;  the  powder  sputtered  and  sizzled;  there  was  a 
low,  muffled  report  in  the  chamber;  but  there  was  no 
detonation.  The  powder  was  wet  from  the  splash 
ing  of  the  horse  through  the  river,  and  would  not 
explode. 

Grasping  the  barrel  of  the  rifle  and  swinging  it 
about  his  head,  he  aimed  a  blow  at  Half  Ear,  who 
dodged  it,  letting  go  his  grip  on  the  horse.  As  he 
let  go,  two  Indians  from  the  other  side  of  the  ani 
mal  grasped  the  bridle,  and  one  who  was  behind  the 
rider,  raising  his  musket,  brought  it  down  upon 
Mortimer's  head  before  he  could  recover  his  bal- 


The  Capture  213 

ance  from  his  own  blow  and  defend  himself  in  the 
rear. 

He  felt  something  crash  against  his  skull  with  a 
blunt  heaviness;  flashes  leaped  before  his  eyes;  a 
deep,  hot  pain  shot  along  his  spine ;  his  legs  turned 
numb  and  could  no  longer  grasp  his  horse ;  the  trees 
reeled  against  the  sky,  and  he  fell  senseless  to  the 
ground. 

Gradually  consciousness  crept  back  into  his 
brain,  bringing  with  it  exquisite  suffering.  He  felt 
a  knot  about  his  wrists ;  the  pain  from  it  was  soaked 
up  by  his  arms.  Cords  were  about  his  body;  his 
whole  weight  was  suspended  in  them.  They  cut  his 
flesh.  He  knew  that  he  was  bound  to  a  tree. 

He  raised  his  aching  head  at  heavy  cost.  By 
degrees  he  discerned  the  crowd  of  savages  about 
him.  They  gesticulated  and  talked  excitedly,  fre 
quently  pointing  at  him.  As  he  tried  to  fix  them  in 
his  gaze,  the  trees  of  the  woods  set  up  a  dance  and 
the  sound  of  the  stream  close  by,  which  was  only  a 
gentle  murmur  of  water,  roared  through  his  ears. 

Little  by  little  his  strength  came  back  and  accu 
mulated.  He  was  able  to  stand  again,  relieving  the 
cutting  of  the  cords  that  bound  him  to  the  tree.  As 
he  gained  control  of  himself,  he  forced  his  face  into 
composure,  banishing  all  trace  of  suffering  from  its 
lines,  and  looked  boldly  at  his  captors.  They  seemed 
to  be  quarreling  violently  among  themselves.  As 
they  quarreled,  they  shot  hasty  glances  of  hate  in 
his  direction,  growing  more  excited  every  moment. 


214          A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

The  focus  of  the  quarrel  was  between  Half  Ear 
and  the  tall  young  brave.  The  young  man  seemed 
fiercely  to  demand  his  immediate  death.  The  other, 
leering  at  him  viciously  from  time  to  time,  appeared 
to  be  arguing  against  such  a  course.  Mortimer 
found  no  comfort  in  that  circumstance.  He  believed 
that  at  best  it  was  only  a  question  of  the  time  and 
circumstance  of  his  destruction.  He  would  have 
preferred  an  instant  fate  to  any  that  might  be  in 
the  devising  of  this  distorted  and  degenerate  savage. 

He  continued  to  stare  boldly  among  them,  meet 
ing  the  gaze  of  such  as  glanced  at  him  without 
flinching,  without  sign  of  fear  or  supplication  in  his 
face.  Half  Ear's  eyes  filled  with  hatred  and  fell 
before  his  own  when  he  turned  them  toward  him. 
Into  the  eyes  of  the  others,  through  their  animosity, 
came  a  look  of  approbation  for  the  cool  manner  in 
which  he  faced  them.  He  saw  it,  but  built  no  hope 
upon  it,  seeing  how  much  stronger  was  the  look  of 
vengeance. 

For  a  long  time  they  wrangled.  In  the  end  the 
tall  young  warrior,  with  a  grunt,  threw  his  open 
hands  downward  as  a  sign  of  acquiescence. 
Grumbling,  they  unbound  him  from  the  tree,  leaving 
the  thongs  still  upon  his  wrists.  Driving  him  among 
them  with  blows,  they  took  up  their  way  northward, 
out  of  the  woods  and  across  the  prairies.  Half  Ear, 
leering  at  him  viciously,  mounted  and  rode 
Powhatan. 


CHAPTER  XVI 
THE  WHITE  MAN'S  CHILD 

RAVEN  HAIR,  haggard,  with  sunken  cheek,  sat 
on  the  ground  by  the  bank  of  a  river  swinging 
Fire  Fly  on  her  knees,  seeking  to  soothe  him  to  sleep 
with  a  song.  The  child  looked  up  at  her  with  a 
pitiful,  wistful  appeal,  seeming  to  wonder  why  this 
warm,  soft,  tender  thing  that  had  always  been  with 
him,  that  had  fed  him  and  sheltered  him  from  his 
helplessness,  that  was  all  he  knew  of  life  and  living, 
did  not  now  stop  the  dull,  dragging  anguish  which 
reached  its  cruel  fingers  within  his  tiny  body  and 
gripped  without  mercy. 

It  was  the  pain  of  hunger  that  clutched  him.  He 
was  starving.  His  emaciated  frame  was  like  a  skele 
ton  in  papyrus;  his  eyes  had  an  unnatural  luster; 
the  hollows  beneath  them  were  leaden;  the  skin  of 
his  face  was  drawn  and  colorless;  his  thin  neck 
could  no  longer  support  his  head;  his  hands  were 
tiny,  shriveled  claws,  blue,  with  purple  veins  upon 
them.  In  one  of  them  he  held  to  his  mouth  a  root 
which  he  had  sucked  until  it  was  nothing  but  white 
shreds.  He  still  sucked  ravenously,  staring  at  his 
mother  with  yearning  eyes. 

Signs  of  distress  were  all  about.  Old  men  and 
squaws  lay  beneath  the  trees,  weak  and  fainting 

215 


216          A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

from  hunger.  Gaunt  children  staggered  among 
them,  hollow-eyed.  Papooses,  their  skin  like  taut 
parchment  over  their  bones,  which  threatened  to 
break  through  the  envelope,  lay  silent  in  their 
baskets.  A  horrid  stillness  brooded  over  all.  No 
voice  was  heard,  save  the  low  song  of  Raven  Hair 
crooning  to  her  child.  The  silence  was  eloquent  of 
their  stoic  bravery  to  endure.  Even  Fire  Ply, 
greedily  sucking  the  innutritions  root,  made  no  com 
plaint,  looking  up  at  his  mother  with  an  expression 
of  patient  faith  that  said  if  she  let  these  pangs  tear 
at  his  bowels,  they  were  a  just  part  of  life,  and  as 
they  should  be. 

Apart  from  them  Black  Hawk  paced  by  the  side 
of  the  river.  Sorrow  bent  his  head.  His  eyes,  full 
of  woe,  were  on  the  ground.  Great  grief  was  upon 
him.  He  had  led  his  people  from  the  other  side  of 
the  Father  of  Waters  that  they  might  make  corn  in 
their  own  land;  now  they  were  famishing.  They 
had  been  driven  from  place  to  place  by  the 
implacable  whites  and  had  had  no  chance  to  plant, 
so  that  there  would  be  no  crop  for  them;  they  had 
brought  but  little  food  with  them,  and  it  was  long 
since  gone ;  it  was  not  the  season  of  much  game,  and 
their  hunters  were  away  in  war  parties  raiding  the 
white  settlements;  the  Winnebagos,  fearing  the 
wrath  of  the  whites,  had  refused  to  help  them;  day 
by  day,  without  hope,  they  were  slowly,  patiently, 
stoically  starving,  with  relentless  certainty. 

Now  they  were  camped  on  the  banks  of  the  Ouis- 


The  White  Man's  Child  217 

consin,  whither  they  had  come  from  Lake  Koshko- 
nong.  Their  case  was  not  so  desperate  when  they 
could  make  camp  and  stay  in  one  place  and  glean 
from  the  surrounding  country.  The  women,  going 
into  the  forest  and  upon  the  prairies,  found  berries 
and  edible  roots ;  the  boys  shot  squirrels  and  snared 
fish  in  the  river.  But  soon  they  would  be  relent 
lessly  driven  forth  again,  and  so,  again;  until  the 
time  came  when  their  trembling  limbs  were  unable 
to  bear  them  farther;  when  the  bullets  of  the  pale 
faces  would  finish  the  work  of  hunger,  and  the 
people  of  the  Hawk  would  be  no  more.  This  was 
the  past,  the  present,  and  the  future,  as  the  mind 
of  their  chief  contemplated  them,  walking  the  banks 
of  the  Ouisconsin.  This  was  what  he  had  brought 
on  his  people. 

He  had  wished  to  return  beyond  the  river  when 
the  whites  showed  hostility,  but  his  young  men, 
incensed  by  the  attack  made  on  their  flag  of  truce 
at  Old  Man's  Creek,  urged  him  to  retaliation.  Chief 
among  the  young  men  who  asked  for  vengeance  was 
the  White  Eagle,  fiercest  in  war.  Feather  Heart, 
his  squaw  and  the  daughter  of  the  chief,  lent  bitter 
voice  to  the  plea.  The  Hawk,  weak  against  their 
insistence  because  of  his  own  anger,  had  acquiesced. 
The  young  men  had  fought  back  in  their  own  way. 
descending  in  small  bands  upon  the  unprotected 
settlers  and  slaying  them.  They  had  aroused  the 
whites  by  their  depredations  and  had  brought  the 
arm  of  the  nation  more  heavily  upon  his  people. 


218          A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

Now  his  people  were  being  hunted  to  their  death  by 
the  palefaces. 

Feather  Heart,  at  his  side,  sought  to  comfort 
him.  "Let  the  Sacs  die,  if  they  must,"  she  said, 
"but  let  them  fight  their  oppressors.  It  is  better 
that  they  should  be  destroyed  utterly,  than  that  any 
should  live  to  tell  the  children  of  the  Sacs  that  the 
Sacs  fled  from  the  palefaces.  The  Hawk  has  done 
well;  his  people  are  glad  to  die;  the  spirits  of  the 
departed  will  praise  him  in  their  happy  hunting 
grounds." 

The  Hawk,  laden  with  sorrow,  made  no  answer 
as  he  walked  by  the  side  of  the  stream. 

Raven  Hair,  sitting  on  the  ground,  crooned  in  a 
low  voice  to  Fire  Fly,  her  first  born,  as  she  swung 
him  on  her  knees. 

' '  The  son  of  the  white  man  must  die  by  the  white 
man's  hand,"  she  said,  in  the  English  tongue,  which 
she  used  when  she  spoke  to  her  babe.  "He  who 
would  have  been  chief  of  the  Sacs  will  never  lift  the 
hunting  spear;  he  will  never  dance  the  war  dance 
with  the  young  men  of  his  people;  the  maidens  of 
the  Sacs  and  the  Foxes  will  not  tremble  with  love 
for  him  when  the  time  of  the  Dance  of  the  Crane 
draws  near.  For  the  land  of  the  Sacs  is  no  more 
the  land  of  the  Sacs;  the  paleface  has  driven  the 
Sank  from  his  hunting  grounds  and  from  the  Silent 
City.  So  let  the  child  of  the  paleface  die  by  the 
white  man's  hand." 

She  half  chanted  what  she  said  to  the  child. 


The  White  Man's  Child  219 

There  was  no  sorrow  in  her  voice,  and  no  anger; 
there  was  resignation,  fatalism,  patience,  but  no 
grief. 

"You  must  not  say  that  Fire  Fly  will  die;  Fire 
Fly  will  not  die.  He  will  be  a  great  chief  and  a 
mighty  hunter  among  his  people. ' ' 

A  soft  and  sympathetic  voice  fell  upon  her  ears 
as  she  finished;  a  gen-tie  hand  rested  on  her  shoul 
der.  Sylvia  Hall  stood  behind  her,  gazing  over  her 
shoulder  at  the  child  with  pity  in  her  deep  blue  eyes. 
Her  face  was  careworn  and  thin  from  her  lack  of 
wonted  food,  her  figure  had  lost  the  delicate  fullness 
of  its  contour;  but  the  look  of  courage  upon  her 
countenance,  of  strength  to  bear  her  trials  and  her 
sorrows,  and  the  brave  self-reliance  of  her  carriage 
made  her  beauty  and  her  grace  more  glorious  than 
they  had  ever  been,  even  on  the  night  when  she  bade 
farewell  to  Mortimer  Randolph  by  the  side  of  the 
Sangamon  River. 

Rachel  stood  at  her  side.  She  was  pitiful  to  look 
upon.  She  had  a  hunted,  haunted  look.  Her  glance 
was  restless  and  eager;  she  was  pursued  by  the 
phantom  of  hope.  There  was  fright,  terror,  despair 
in  her  face.  She  clung  bitterly  to  a  love  of  life,  but 
she  had  not  the  spiritual  courage  to  have  faith  in 
the  future.  She  left  hope  and  courage  and  faith  to 
her  sister,  depending  upon  her  for  their  sustaining 
virtues.  In  depending,  she  seemed  to  demand  the 
other's  moral  support,  pettishly,  querulously,  like 
a  spoiled  child,  and  as  though  all  the  tribulations 


220  A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

that  had  come  upon  her  had  come  through  Sylvia, 
with  malice  prepense.  This  was  suggested  both  in 
her  appearance  and  in  her  bearing  toward  her 
sister. 

Eaven  Hair  neither  raised  her  head  nor  turned 
her  face  as  she  made  answer.  She  had  often  heard 
the  soft  voice  and  felt  the  gentle  hand  of  the  pale 
face  woman  since  the  two  prisoners  had  been  turned 
over  to  Black  Hawk  by  Mike  Girty  and  the  Potto- 
watomies.  She  knew  who  it  was  that  spoke  to  her. 

"His  people  are  thy  people,  and  thy  people  come 
to  slay  him,"  she  said,  still  half  chanting.  "Once 
he  could  walk;  now  his  head  hangs  on  a  thong  and 
his  legs  are  as  water.  Once  he  laughed  and  called 
to  his  mother ;  now  his  voice  is  a  moan  in  the  night. 
Blue  death  creeps  to  his  heart  by  many  trails.  The 
squaw  of  the  whites  is  good.  The  squaw  of  the 
whites  is  kind.  Eaven  Hair  is  grateful  to  the  pale 
face  squaw.  But  Fire  Fly  must  wither  and  fade  in 
the  days  of  a  summer;  for  the  white  man  is  cruel, 
and  the  son  of  a  white  man  cannot  live  on  the  roots 
that  the  white  man  leaves  for  him  to  eat. ' ' 

For  the  first  time  there  was  a  trace  of  anguish 
in  her  voice  as  she  finished,  and  a  shadow  of  sorrow 
passed  through  her  eyes.  Eachel,  forgetting  her 
own  tribulations,  listened  keenly,  almost  with  excite 
ment,  to  the  mother,  casting  many  glances  at  Sylvia. 
She  had  held  herself  apart  from  the  Indians  and 
had  not  learned  of  Eaven  Hair  and  the  white  man's 
child  before. 


• '  I1' ire  Fly  will  not  die.    He  will  be  a  great  chief  and 
a  mighty  hunter." 


The  White  Man's  Child  221 

"Why  don't  you  take  the  child  back  to  the  white 
man  ? ' '  she  asked,  half  sneering.  '  *  His  father  would 
not  let  him  starve,  would  he?" 

Eaven  Hair  arose  and  confronted  her,  clutching 
her  child  close  to  her.  Her  stoic  composure  was 
upon  her  again. 

"The  white  man  has  gone  his  way  and  I  have 
gone  mine,"  she  made  answer,  proudly,  though  not 
without  a  regret,  which  she  could  not  exclude  from 
her  tone. 

Eachel  was  on  the  point  of  speaking  further, 
when  Sylvia  put  her  aside  with  a  gesture  of  reproof, 
and  laid  her  hand  tenderly  on  the  frail  shoulders 
of  the  baby. 

"I  have  corn  that  the  Hawk  has  given  me,"  she 
said,  shuddering  as  she  felt  the  tiny  skeleton,  almost 
without  flesh  to  cover  it.  "I  will  make  a  gruel  for 
Fire  Fly.  I  will  feed  him.  He  must  not  starve." 

"We  have  no  corn  to  spare,"  expostulated 
Eachel,  snatching  indignantly  at  her  sister's  sleeve. 

"Let  the  black-eyed  one  have  no  fear,"  said 
Eaven  Hair,  turning  a  scornful  glance  upon  Eachel. 
"I  shall  not  take  her  corn;  for  the  Hawk  has  said 
that  the  white  squaws  must  not  be  hungry,  though 
we  all  starve,  and  that  they  must  come  to  no  harm, 
so  that  the  palefaces  may  see  that  the  Hawk  has  a 
full  heart.  I  will  not  take  your  corn." 

"The  Hawk  shall  not  know,"  said  Sylvia,  more 
and  more  distressed  at  sight  of  the  starving  child 
sucking  the  unwholesome  and  worthless  root.  "I 


222  A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

have  plenty  of  corn.  We  will  touch  none  of  hers," 
indicating  Rachel  with  a  gesture  of  her  brows. 

"Whether  the  Hawk  knows  or  knows  not  is  all 
one, ' '  answered  the  Indian  woman.  * '  His  word  has 
gone  forth,  and  his  word  is  the  truth. ' ' 

"Come!  We  will  ask  the  chief,"  urged  Sylvia. 
"He  will  let  you  have  some  of  my  corn  if  I  ask 
him." 

Eaven  Hair  pointed  a  thin  hand  toward  Black 
Hawk,  pacing  by  the  side  of  the  stream.  He  was 
alone  now.  Feather  Heart  had  left  him  to  his 
sorrow. 

'  *  Shall  I  go  to  him  with  a  cry  because  one  of  his 
children  is  dying,  when  they  are  all  dying  at  his 
feet?"  she  said,  with  passion.  "What  is  the  child 
of  Raven  Hair,  and  who  is  Raven  Hair,  that  she 
should  go  to  the  chief  with  her  anguish  when  the 
anguish  of  his  whole  people  tears  his  soul?  I  will 
go  with  Fire  Fly  to  the  woods  and  find  roots  for 
him.  When  the  time  comes  for  him  to  die  he  shall 
die  like  a  Sauk,  and  not  like  a  paleface." 

She  walked  away  from  the  two  sisters  as  she  fin 
ished,  disdainful  of  fate.  Sylvia,  knowing  the  soul 
of  the  woman,  made  no  further  attempt  to  persuade 
her,  but  watched  her  go  with  a  heart  full  of  pity. 
Rachel,  observing  the  sadness  in  her  face,  flew  into 
a  passion. 

"Have  you  no  shame,  sister?"  she  cried,  stamp 
ing  her  foot  petulantly.  "Aren't  you  ashamed  to 
carry  on  so  about  that  child?  Didn't  you  hear  her 


The  White  Man's  Child  223 

say  time  and  again  that  it  was  a  white  man's 
child?" 

"We  are  not  to  judge  of  that  by  our  own  laws, 
Rachel,"  answered  Sylvia,  softly.  "It  is  flesh  and 
blood,  and  we  must  not  see  it  die  of  hunger." 

"Yes,  and  whose  flesh  and  blood!  Whose  flesh 
and  blood?"  cried  Rachel,  bursting  into  tears  in  her 
anger  and  vexation.  "I  hope  you  are  satisfied  now, 
you  stubborn  fool !  I  hope  you  will  believe  what  he 
is  now!  I  suppose  he  is  to  be  judged  by  our  laws, 
isn't  he!" 

The  girl  was  beside  herself  with  vexation.  A 
look  of  pain  came  into  Sylvia's  face.  She  turned 
her  head  away  to  conceal  it.  Rachel,  perceiving  the 
hurt  she  had  given,  in  spite  of  her  sister's  attempts 
to  hide  it,  burst  forth  again  more  violently  than 
before. 

"Didn't  Mr.  Frake  give  you  warning  what  sort 
of  a  man  Randolph  was!"  she  exclaimed;  "didn't 
your  own  brother  see  him  with  a  squaw  at  Sauke- 
nuk;  did  not  he  start  for  the  Indians  as  soon  as  they 
were  in  danger;  can't  you  see  that  this  is  the  squaw 
with  the  half-breed  papoose  they  told  about;  can't 
you  see  why  he  came,  and  what  he  is  ?  It  serves  you 
right !  It  serves  you  right ! ' ' 

She  stamped  her  foot  and  bit  her  lip.  The  white 
face  of  Sylvia  was  more  pallid,  and  more  beautiful, 
as  she  made  answer. 

"Rachel,"  she  said,  "I  have  listened  in  silence 
to  many  things  that  you  have  said  about  Mr.  Ran- 


224          A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

dolph.  I  have  been  patient  with  you  and  have  tried 
to  overlook  your  wicked  abuse  of  him.  Now  I  will 
hear  no  more  of  it.  I  forbid  your  mentioning  his 
name  to  me  again.  I  charge  you  never  to  speak  of 
him,  for  good  or  evil.  You  have  forfeited  the  right. 
Until  I  see  evil  in  him  with  my  own  eyes,  I  shall 
believe  in  him,  though  the  whole  world  cries  evil 
about  him.  Unless  he  destroys  it  in  me,  I  shall  have 
faith  in  him  until  the  last  day." 

There  was  rebuke  in  her  tone,  but  no  anger. 
There  was  dignity  and  firmness  in  her  countenance ; 
but  there  was  patient  and  pitying  affection  in  the 
look  with  which  she  regarded  the  passionate  face  of 
the  other.  When  she  had  finished  she  left  Rachel 
pouting,  and  passed  among  the  miserable  savages 
to  the  little  bark  shelter  that  Black  Hawk  had  caused 
to  be  built  for  them  apart  from  the  Indians,  for  their 
greater  comfort  and  privacy.  There  they  lived  with 
Light  Foot,  their  custodian,  chosen  because  she  was 
old  and  knew  some  words  of  English,  learned  from 
Half  Ear,  her  son,  friend  of  the  white  man. 

The  sound  of  the  words  that  Sylvia  had  spoken 
that  night  by  the  banks  of  Sangamon  River, 
repeated  half  unwittingly  now,  awakened  memories 
that  she  tried  to  keep  buried  in  the  bottom  of  her 
heart ;  memories  that  floated  in  tears  to  her  eyes  as 
she  passed  inside  the  shelter,  filling  her  with  sadness 
and  longing.  The  sound  of  them  mocked  her.  She 
had  uttered  them  more  to  herself  than  her  sister; 
without  realizing  it,  she  had  addressed  them  to  a 


The  White  Man's  Child  225 

hideous  fear  and  doubt  that  was  raised  up  within 
her;  a  doubt  vague,  intangible,  preposterous, 
persistent. 

Her  faith  had  contended  much  with  Rachel's 
prejudice.  This  day  she  knew  with  bitter  misery 
that  she  had  more  than  her  sister's  skepticism  to 
struggle  against;  for  this  day  a  white  man's  child 
had  looked  up  into  her  face  out  of  the  arms  of  its 
Indian  mother.  Many  words  falling  in  the  same 
place  wear  a  hole  into  the  bravest  soul,  just  as  many 
drops  of  water  beat  into  the  heart  of  a  stone ;  now 
the  tiny,  pale  hands  of  the  babe  tore  into  her  heart. 

If  she  could  hear  one  word  from  his  lips  she 
would  be  restored;  if  she  could  look  into  his  eyes 
and  touch  his  hand  again  faith  would  indeed  live  to 
the  last  day.  Alone,  beset  as  she  was  by  danger  and 
distress,  sick  at  heart,  with  nothing  to  sustain  her 
but  memories,  she  lost  courage  for  the  fight.  Know 
ing  it  to  be  a  sin,  and  with  an  anguish  upon  her  that 
held  her  transfixed  and  dry-eyed  beneath  the  shelter 
of  bark,  she  doubted. 


CHAPTER  XVH 
THE  SHADOWS  DEEPEN 

QEATED  on  the  ground  in  the  shelter  of  bark, 
^  alone  with  her  perishing  soul,  there  came  to 
Sylvia's  ears  from  afar  off  a  cry,  the  war  cry  of 
the  young  men  of  the  Sacs  returning  from  a  raid 
among  the  whites.  She  had  heard  the  cry  many  a 
time  in  her  captivity;  she  had  heard  it  in  the  dead 
of  night ;  she  had  heard  it  piercing  the  storm  to  the 
accompaniment  of  thunder ;  she  had  heard  it  scream 
ing  through  the  solitary  woods  in  peaceful  quiet  of 
noonday;  never  had  it  affected  her  as  it  did  now. 
There  was  portent  in  it,  coming  so  shrilly  into  her 
thoughts  of  Mortimer. 

She  started  from  her  seat  on  the  ground  and 
rose  to  her  feet.  She  hurried  from  the  shelter  and 
looked  eagerly,  tremulously,  in  the  direction  whence 
it  had  come.  A  hope  and  a  deadly  fear  were  at  her 
heart. 

The  cry  of  the  returning  band  had  stirred  the 
listless  Indians  into  a  ghostlike  activity.  They  arose 
excitedly  from  where  they  lay  upon  the  grass  and 
gazed  in  the  direction  whence  the  young  men  would 
come,  speculating  with  many  gesticulations  and 
grimaces.  Some  of  the  more  vigorous  went  forth  to 
meet  them;  for  the  return  of  the  raiders  meant 

226 


The  Shadows  Deepen  227 

much  to  the  starving  old  men  and  the  women  and 
the  gaunt  children.  It  meant  word  of  the  dreaded 
white  man;  it  meant  tales  of  victory  to  inspirit 
them ;  it  meant  strength  for  fighting ;  it  meant  food ; 
for  the  marauders  brought  what  spoils  they  could 
to  their  starving  people. 

Black  Hawk  stood  in  the  midst  of  his  waiting 
people,  silent  and  sad.  Feather  Heart  crept  toward 
him,  trembling  with  weakness  as  she  walked.  The 
ghost  of  her  beauty  was  left  in  her  sunken  cheeks 
and  hollow  eyes.  As  she  came  near  her  father,  her 
step  grew  light,  though  the  effort  drew  a  tremor 
through  her  frame. 

"  It  is  the  White  Eagle !  It  is  the  White  Eagle ! ' ' 
she  cried,  merrily.  Yet  only  the  ghost  of  joyousness 
was  in  her  voice. 

Sylvia,  dazed,  incapable  of  thought,  left  the  bark 
shelter  and  hurried  toward  the  group  of  Indians 
gathering  in  the  center  of  the  camp.  The  cry  came 
again,  nearer  at  hand.  Excitement  ran  through  the 
waiting  Sacs.  She  could  see  the  forms  of  the 
approaching  Indians  through  the  trees,  half  naked, 
painted,  hideous.  They  passed  from  the  shelter  of 
the  trees  and  came  down  the  open  space  toward 
their  people,  jubilant  and  shouting.  Among  them 
they  drove  a  prisoner.  His  hands  were  bound. 
He  was  pale,  haggard,  anxious ;  courageous,  defiant, 
magnificent.  It  was  Mortimer ! 

As  they  came,  she  saw  the  beautiful  eyes  search 
among  the  Indians  until  they  found  her.  They 


228          A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

rested  for  an  instant;  a  sign  of  gladness  and  good 
cheer  and  warning  flashed  from  them,  and  they  left 
her  face.  She  believed  that  it  was  his  necessity  and 
hers  that  made  his  glance  pass  so  swiftly;  but  she 
wished  that  it  could  have  tarried  another  instant. 
There  was  a  destroying  hunger  in  her  heart. 

The  returning  warriors  stopped  and  circled 
about  their  prisoner  with  cries  and  gestures.  The 
old  men  of  the  Sacs,  and  the  boys  who  hunted,  joined 
them.  The  women  and  the  children  waited  at  a  dis 
tance.  Only  Feather  Heart  of  the  women  went  to 
meet  the  young  braves,  walking  by  the  side  of  her 
father,  the  chief,  greeting  the  Eagle  with  a  look  of 
love  and  pride  as  he  circled,  chanting,  about  the 
prisoner. 

Sylvia,  among  the  women,  saw  Eachel  standing 
beside  her.  Eachel  looked  dumbly  into  her  face, 
overpowered  by  the  situation.  Sylvia  instinctively 
reached  out  and  took  her  hand,  cold  and  stiff  from 
nervous  tension.  Her  eyes  clung  to  her  lover;  not 
once  did  he  turn  his  gaze  toward  her. 

They  dragged  him  about  among  them.  His 
hands  were  bound,  and  once  he  fell  to  the  ground 
heavily,  unable  to  save  himself.  He  rose  to  his  feet 
with  calm  dignity,  ignoring  his  captors,  and  turned 
his  face  toward  Black  Hawk.  Between  the  two 
there  flashed  a  look  of  recognition.  It  left  the  face 
of  each  at  the  same  moment.  The  countenance  of 
the  chief  hardened  into  relentless  condemnation. 
The  features  of  Mortimer  became  fixed  in  an  expres- 


The  Shadows  Deepen  229 

sion  of  serene  courage.  The  heart  of  Sylvia  sank 
at  the  sight. 

The  circling  dance  stopped.  The  sound  of  the 
chant  died  upon  the  air.  White  Eagle  and  Half  Ear 
came  before  their  chief.  There  were  words  in  the 
Sauk  tongue  which  Sylvia  could  not  understand. 
Mortimer  glanced  once  at  Sylvia  and  smiled  bravely. 
The  chief  nodded  his  head.  The  savages  turned  to 
Mortimer  and  dragged  him  to  a  tree.  An  excited 
murmur  went  among  the  women.  Eachel  uttered  a 
sound  that  was  half  a  shriek  and  half  a  whispered 
prayer.  Sylvia  made  no  sound  or  motion.  She 
passed  through  the  events  that  followed,  swifter 
than  emotion  could  follow,  dazed  and  stunned,  like 
one  in  a  delirium. 

A  dozen  hands  bound  him  to  the  tree.  A  score 
of  hands  brought  dry  brush  and  faggots,  piling  them 
about  him.  Without  a  tremor,  Mortimer  looked 
forth  from  his  pyre.  The  Indians  finished.  A  war 
rior,  kneeling,  made  ready  to  light  the  heap  of  brush 
from  the  firing  pan  of  a  flintlock.  There  was  a  hush. 
In  the  hush,  the  lips  of  the  doomed  man  moved. 

"Is  there  an  Indian  here  who  speaks  the  Eng 
lish  tongue?"  he  said,  quietly,  looking  from  face  to 
face.  "I  have  a  message  for  the  Hawk  from  the 
White  Beaver." 

The  face  of  Half  Ear  filled  with  sinister  light; 
he  made  no  response.  Sylvia  struggled  to  cry  out ; 
something  clutched  her  throat ;  something  smothered 


230          A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

her  soul;  she  could  not  speak.  Rachel,  clinging  at 
her  side,  screamed. 

' '  Half  Ear ! "  she  cried,  pointing  to  him.  * '  That 
Indian  can " 

The  hand  of  Light  Foot  pressed  heavily  over  her 
mouth;  the  arm  of  Light  Foot  was  about  her 
shoulders. 

"Let  the  white  squaw  hold  her  peace!"  grunted 
the  Indian  woman.  ' '  The  white  man  is  a  liar.  Why 
should  Half  Ear  parley  with  a  liar?" 

For  an  instant  the  attention  of  the  Indians  was 
diverted  to  Eachel.  Mortimer  understood,  but  held 
his  peace,  having  no  hope  in  Half  Ear.  In  another 
instant  the  powder  in  the  pan  of  the  flintlock  flashed. 
A  tiny  blaze  sprung  up  in  the  edge  of  the  pyre.  It 
leaped  and  crackled.  Smoke  filled  the  heap  of  brush 
and  poured  out  of  it.  Through  the  smoke  came  a 
smile  of  farewell;  a  smile  that  bade  Sylvia  be  of 
good  cheer.  She  could  make  no  response.  She 
could  only  stare  dumbly  into  the  smoke.  Her  soul 
was  dead  within  her.  Her  faith  in  him  struggled 
into  life  as  he  was  about  to  die. 

The  flames  gained  headway,  crackling  louder  and 
louder.  The  savages,  lifting  their  spears  and 
hatchets,  danced  about  the  burning  pile  in  howling, 
screaming  frenzy.  Black  Hawk,  standing  motion 
less,  looked  on  stolidly.  At  his  side  was  Feather 
Heart,  wavering  slightly  like  a  reed  in  the  breeze, 
her  lips  compressed  and  her  hands  clenched,  gazing 


The  Shadows  Deepen  231 

constantly  upon  the  White  Eagle,  who  lead  the 
dance  and  the  frenzy. 

Sylvia,  standing  like  a  statue  among  the  women, 
staring  with  fixed  eyes,  saw  Raven  Hair  appear  like 
a  vision  by  the  side  of  Feather  Heart,  with  Fire  Fly 
in  her  arms. 

"The  child  of  the  white  man  must  see  how  the 
white  man  dies ! ' '  she  heard  her  say.  In  the  moment 
that  she  said  it,  the  veil  of  smoke  drifted,  and  the 
face  of  Mortimer  was  once  more  revealed,  calm, 
serene,  magnificent  in  fortitude.  Staring  dumbly, 
Sylvia  saw  Eaven  Hair  thrust  the  child  into  the 
arms  of  Feather  Heart,  saw  her  leap  to  the  burning 
pile  and  snatch  the  brands  away  with  bare  hands, 
crying  loudly  in  the  Sauk  tongue. 

Half  Ear,  his  face  distorted  with  rage,  rushed 
upon  her.  She  thrust  him  aside,  crying  out  in  the 
Sauk  tongue.  The  White  Eagle — a  score  of  young 
men — swarmed  upon  her.  She  threw  the  fire  brands 
among  them,  calling  loudly  in  her  own  tongue. 

Feather  Heart,  leaving  her  father's  side,  glided 
to  White  Eagle.  She  laid  her  hand  on  his  arm.  She 
whispered  in  his  ear.  Sullenly,  he  held  the  braves 
off. 

Raven  Hair,  tearing  frantically  at  the  crackling 
brush,  stamping  the  fire  with  her  feet,  arrested  the 
blaze.  Feather  Heart,  the  babe  on  her  arm,  spoke 
to  her  father,  the  chief,  pleadingly.  The  White 
Eagle  stood  apart,  his  arms  folded,  taciturn  and 
baleful.  Half  Ear,  slinking  behind  the  young  men, 


232  A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

who  stood  in  a  wondering  group,  listened  and 
watched. 

Eaven  Hair  drew  herself  up  in  front  of  the  man 
whom  she  had  saved  from  the  fire  and  confronted 
the  chief  and  the  young  men.  Mortimer,  blackened 
by  smoke,  with  distress  and  anguish  contending  with 
his  determination  to  endure  without  flinching,  looked 
on,  marveling.  He  turned  one  searching  glance 
upon  Sylvia. 

All  this  Sylvia  saw  like  one  in  a  dream,  not 
understanding  it,  not  trying  to,  not  caring  to  under 
stand;  not  daring  to  guess  why  this  woman  had 
saved  the  life  of  that  man. 

There  was  rapid  and  vehement  speech  between 
the  Indian  mother  and  the  chief.  It  was  in  the  Sauk 
tongue,  and  Sylvia  could  not  understand.  Feather 
Heart  joined  in  it  briefly  from  time  to  time,  address 
ing  herself  pleadingly  to  her  father.  The  young 
men  muttered  among  themselves.  In  the  midst  of 
their  talk,  Mortimer  spoke. 

"Eaven  Hair,"  he  said,  "tell  the  Hawk  I  am  not 
afraid  to  die,  but  that  I  bear  a  message  for  him  from 
the  White  Beaver,  which  he  should  hear  before  he 
kills  me." 

Eaven  Hair  turned  to  the  chief  and  repeated  to 
him  in  Sauk  what  the  paleface  said.  The  Hawk 
made  answer. 

"Let  the  white  man  say  what  he  has  to  say," 
Eaven  Hair  said  to  Mortimer. 

"Tell  the  great  chief  of  the  Sacs  that  the  White 


The  Shadows  Deepen  233 

Beaver  does  not  wish  to  destroy  and  punish  the  chil 
dren  of  the  Hawk,"  he  said  to  her.  "Tell  him  that 
the  Great  Father  does  not  wish  to  bring  sorrow  to 
his  children.  He  only  wishes  them  to  go  beyond  the 
river,  where  they  had  promised  to  go.  If  they  do 
that  there  will  be  peace  and  love  between  the  Indian 
and  the  white  man.  Tell  him  that  the  Great  Father 
is  kind,  and  will  let  the  people  of  the  Hawk  go  across 
the  Father  of  Waters  if  only  the  Hawk  will  send 
back  the  young  white  women  he  has  captive,  and  go 
himself  to  see  the  Great  Father  in  the  Big  Wigwam. 
If  he  will  do  this,  his  people  may  go  in  safety  beyond 
the  Mississippi." 

An  angry  murmur  arose  among  the  Indians  when 
the  woman  made  known  to  the  chief  what  the  white 
man  had  said.  Their  resentment  arose  against  the 
bearer  of  the  message,  who  had  already  aroused 
their  malice  because  of  his  rescue.  The  White 
Eagle  was  bold  in  his  displeasure. 

Black  Hawk,  lost  in  thought  for  a  space,  held  up 
his  hand  and  forbade  the  angry  complainings  of  his 
young  men.  Looking  fully  into  Mortimer 's  face,  the 
chief  spoke  long  and  mournfully  in  the  Sauk  tongue, 
Eaven  Hair  repeating  it  in  English  from  time  to 
time. 

' '  The  Hawk  is  sorry  he  came, ' '  said  the  woman, 
translating.  * '  The  Hawk  is  sorry  that  he  has  made 
the  Great  Father  angry.  It  is  not  well  for  the  red 
man  to  anger  the  great  chief  of  the  palefaces;  for 
the  red  man  is  the  child  of  the  Great  Father.  He 


234          A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

came  to  make  corn,  believing  that  the  palefaces 
would  let  his  people  work  in  their  fields  through  the 
summer.  But  the  whites  have  driven  him  from  his 
fields  and  his  people  are  perishing.  For  himself,  he 
is  old,  and  the  night  cometh  upon  him,  but  his  people 
are  brave  and  strong,  and  the  time  is  not  come  when 
they  should  die.  He  is  an  old  leaf,  trembling  on  the 
bough,  but  his  people  are  like  the  green  shoots  of 
spring.  He  will  do  as  the  White  Beaver  says.  He 
will  take  his  people  across  the  Father  of  "Waters. 
He  will  send  the  paleface  squaws  back  to  the  whites. 
He  will  go  to  the  Great  Father  in  the  Big  Wigwam. 
But  how  shall  he  know  that  the  word  of  the  paleface 
is  true?  Many  times  has  the  paleface  said  one 
thing,  and  done  another.  How  shall  he  know?  He 
will  first  take  his  people  across  the  river,  and  then 
he  will  come  to  the  Great  Father  for  his  blessing. 
He  will  lead  his  starving  women  to  the  land  of  the 
loways,  and  then  he  will  give  back  the  paleface 
women  to  their  own  people.  First  the  white  man 
must  do  what  he  says  he  will  do,  and  then  will  the 
Hawk  fulfil  his  word." 

Sylvia  heard  nothing  of  what  was  said.  Her 
eyes  were  fixed  on  the  face  of  Mortimer.  Her  brain 
was  struck  dead  by  a  growing  fear.  Why  had  this 
woman  sought  to  save  this  man?  What  was  there 
between  them  that  made  her  plead  for  him  against 
the  tribe  of  relentless  and  hostile  savages  ?  Was  it 
the  true  answer  that  Eachel,  standing  beside  her, 
was  staring  into  her  face  ?  No !  Until  the  last  day 


The  Shadows  Deepen  235 

she  would  hold  to  her  faith,  unless  the  man  himself 
destroyed  it.  But  why  did  this  woman  save  the  life 
of  this  man  "? 

They  were  unbinding  him  from  the  tree.  They 
were  releasing  his  wrists  from  the  cords  that  bound 
them.  Their  chief  was  talking  to  them,  staying  their 
anger  and  disappointment. 

'  *  The  Black  Hawk  says  that  the  white  man  shall 
go  back  with  the  answer  he  has  made,"  said  Eaven 
Hair,  when  the  chief  had  finished.  "The  White 
Eagle  will  go  with  him  until  his  way  shall  be  safe. 
The  Hawk  will  do  that  which  he  has  said  he  will  do 
when  the  palefaces  have  done  that  which  they  have 
said  they  will  do." 

He  did  not  tell  them  there  was  no  hope  in  such 
an  answer.  They  gave  him  his  own  horse  to  ride. 
They  gave  him  his  gun  and  his  knife.  The  White 
Eagle,  surly  and  grim,  mounted  and  led  the  way. 
Without  another  glance  at  Sylvia,  Mortimer  headed 
his  horse  to  the  southward  and  passed  from  the 
camp.  Watching  him  as  one  whose  soul  is  afar  off, 
Sylvia  saw  him  turn  his  head  slightly  as  he  left  and 
make  a  signal  to  the  woman  with  the  papoose. 
Watching,  she  saw  the  woman  steal  among  the  trees 
and  follow  him  with  her  babe  in  her  arms. 

With  a  low  moan,  she  groped  her  way  back  to 
the  shelter  of  bark. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 
THE  RISK 

WHEN  Mortimer  Randolph,  liberated  by  Black 
Hawk  and  sent  back  to  the  whites  without 
opportunity  to  see  Sylvia,  made  a  signal  to  Raven 
Hair  to  follow,  he  had  no  other  purpose  than  to 
send  a  message  of  comfort  and  encouragement  by 
her  to  the  captives.  A  plan  to  bring  about  their 
escape,  through  the  agency  of  the  squaw,  had  grown 
in  his  mind  as  he  rode  by  the  side  of  White  Eagle. 

It  was  vague  and  indefinite  and  hazardous;  he 
could  not  be  sure  when  or  how  he  could  cooperate 
in  its  execution,  or  that  he  could  do  so  at  all.  He 
concluded  to  discuss  it  with  Raven  Hair,  if  she 
should  follow,  confiding  in  her  friendship,  and  leave 
it  to  her  decision,  subject  to  the  approval  of  Sylvia. 
Of  her  courage  and  ability  to  undertake  any  plan 
that  might  be  devised,  he  had  little  doubt. 

They  traveled  slowly.  Mortimer  contrived  to 
delay  their  progress  by  making  Powhatan  feign  a 
lameness ;  a  trick  he  had  taught  the  horse  for  diver 
sion  and  display.  They  were  hardly  out  of  sight  of 
the  camp  when  they  heard  the  voice  of  the  woman 
calling  after  them  through  the  woods. 

White  Eagle,  hearing  her,  supposed  that  the 
Hawk  had  sent  her  with  a  further  message  for  the 

236 


The  Risk  237 

white  man,  she  being  the  one  who  had  acted  as 
interpreter.  He  stopped  his  horse  and  waited.  She 
came  to  them  breathless,  Fire  Fly  slung  at  her  back. 

"What  does  Eaven  Hair  want  of  us,  that  she 
cries  after  us  f "  asked  White  Eagle,  in  the  Sauk,  as 
the  woman  paused  for  breath.  He  was  in  an  ill 
humor,  both  because  the  white  man  had  been  spared 
and  that  he  had  been  sent  with  him,  away  from  the 
side  of  Feather  Heart.  "Has  the  Hawk  thought  of 
something  more  that  he  would  say  to  the  White 
Beaver?" 

Eaven  Hair,  quick  to  see  the  advantage  that  his 
conjecture  gave  her,  replied  that  he  had  guessed  her 
errand.  ' '  He  thinks  I  have  come  from  the  Hawk  to 
speak  more  words  with  you  for  the  White  Beaver,'* 
she  explained,  turning  to  Mortimer.  "We  may  talk 
without  danger.  I  will  tell  him  lies  as  we  talk,  that 
he  may  think  I  parley  with  you  for  the  chief.  What 
would  the  white  man  have  of  Eaven  Hair  1 ' ' 

"You  have  done  much  for  me,  Eaven  Hair,"  said 
Mortimer.  "You  have  braved  your  own  people, 
and  saved  my  life.  I  cannot  reward  you  now,  but  I 
will  not  forget. ' ' 

"The  white  man  has  already  rewarded  Eaven 
Hair,"  returned  the  woman.  "He  has  saved  her 
from  the  blows  of  her  husband  before  the  women 
of  her  people,  and  he  has  saved  her  husband  from 
loving  another." 

She  sat  on  a  fallen  tree,  being  weary.  Mortimer 
dismounted  from  his  horse  and  stood  beside  her. 


238  A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

The  White  Eagle,  watching  them  closely,  remained 
on  his  horse. 

"What  do  you  say  to  the  white  man?"  he 
demanded,  in  the  Indian  tongue. 

"That  the  Hawk  would  ask  the  White  Beaver  to 
come  to  parley  with  him  at  the  Devil's  Cave,  in  the 
Dalles  of  the  Ouisconsin,"  replied  Raven  Hair, 
adroitly. 

"And  what  does  the  white  man  say?" 

"He  has  not  said,"  answered  the  woman. 
"What  will  you  have  of  Raven  Hair?"  she  asked, 
turning  to  Mortimer.  "The  Eagle  is  cheated." 

"I  would  ask  much  of  you,"  returned  Mortimer. 
"I  would  ask  more  than  you  need  to  do  for  me. 
One  of  the  white  women  that  you  have  captive  is 
my  own  dear  love" — it  was  necessary  that  the 
woman  should  understand  wholly — ' '  and  I  want  you 
to  help  her  escape." 

He  watched  for  the  effect  of  the  suggestion  upon 
the  woman.  The  eye  of  the  Eagle  was  upon  her,  and 
she  made  no  sign. 

"What  does  the  white  man  answer?"  asked  the 
Indian,  looking  keenly  at  her. 

"He  says  that  the  White  Beaver  will  not  wish  to 
come  so  far,"  she  answered;  "but  he  has  more  to 
say.  Hold  your  peace  until  he  has  finished.  I  do 
the  work  of  the  chief  ? ' ' 

"How  shall  they  escape?"  she  asked,  turning  to 
Mortimer  again. 

"You  must  help,"  he  answered,  eagerly.    "You 


The  Risk  239 

must  find  a  way.  Can  you  get  horses?  Can  you 
get  them  out  of  camp!  Can  you  ride  with  them! 
Can  you  come  to  me!  We  can  appoint  a  place. 
White  Eagle  will  leave  me  in  the  morning.  I  can 
meet  you  in  the  morning." 

It  was  beginning  to  seem  possible  to  him.  Raven 
Hair  thought  deeply  for  a  moment. 

"What  is  the  white  man's  answer!"  asked  the 
White  Eagle. 

"He  has  not  finished.  He  asks  if  the  Hawk  will 
come  without  any  of  his  braves  to  Koshkonong, 
where  the  White  Beaver  has  built  a  fort."  She 
turned  to  Mortimer.  "Toward  the  rising  sun,  as 
far  as  a  horse  can  go  from  noon  till  night,  is  a  great 
lake,"  she  said.  "On  the  lake,  toward  the  setting 
sun,  is  a  rock ;  a  high  rock,  as  smooth  as  the  face  of 
Fire  Fly  before  hunger  was  upon  him.  Beneath  the 
rock,  toward  the  lake,  is  a  cave.  There  I  will  bring 
the  white  women  before  the  sun  rises  again,  if  they 
will  come  with  me.  But  the  risk  is  great.  It  will  be 
evil  for  them  if  they  are  found.  Are  the  white 
women  brave!  They  are  well  with  our  great  chief, 
and  the  risk  is  great.  Eaven  Hair  will  bring  them, 
if  they  will  come,  and  they  are  not  caught. ' ' 

"Tell  them  what  you  will  do,"  Mortimer  made 
answer,  beginning  to  falter  at  the  risks  involved. 
*  *  Tell  them  the  risk.  Let  them  decide.  If  they  stay 
with  the  Hawk,  I  will  come  to  their  succor.  If  they 
come,  I  will  meet  them. ' ' 

' '  How  shall  you  know  f ' ' 


240          A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

"If  they  do  not  come,  I  shall  know,"  he 
answered. 

"If  they  do  not  come  before  the  sun  is  upright 
above  the  rock,  they  will  not  come,"  said  Raven 
Hair,  positively. 

"Raven  Hair  has  spoken  long,"  complained  the 
White  Eagle,  frowning  impatient.  "Can  Raven 
Hair  hold  parley  like  a  chief?  Is  there  no  answer 
to  the  message  I ' ' 

"The  white  man  says  that  the  Hawk  must  send 
a  young  man  to  the  White  Beaver  to  tell  him 
whether  he  will  come  to  Koshkonong,"  she 
answered.  "If  the  Hawk  will  not  come  to  Koshko 
nong,  the  Beaver  will  go  to  the  cave  in  the  Dalles, 
bringing  all  his  men.  The  Hawk  must  send  a  young 
man  with  the  answer." 

"Has  Raven  Hair  done!  Has  the  white  man 
done  ? ' '  asked  the  White  Eagle,  angrily.  He  did  not 
like  this  parley  with  the  enemy  of  his  people.  His 
blood  was  stirred  against  the  palefaces;  he  would 
speak  with  them  only  with  the  rifle. 

"We  have  done,"  she  made  answer,  rising. 
"Until  the  sun  is  upright  above  the  rock  you  may 
wait,"  she  added,  to  Mortimer. 

"I  cannot  give  you  reward  now,  Raven  Hair," 
said  he,  gratefully.  "But  when  Raven  Hair  comes 
with  the  white  women  she  shall  go  with  us  to  the 
land  of  the  whites,  where  Fire  Fly  shall  grow  fat." 

"Raven  Hair  will  return  to  her  people,"  replied 
the  Indian  woman,  solemnly.  "The  bones  of  Fire 


The  Risk  241 

Fly  shall  rest  among  the  dead  of  the  Sacs.    She  will 

bring  the  white  women  if  they  will  come;  but  she 

will  return  to  her  own  people. ' ' 

"Is  the  white  man  done?"  grunted  the  young 

brave. 

* '  He  bids  you  come, ' '  said  Raven  Hair.    ' '  Go. ' ' 
Randolph  mounted  Powhatan  and  rode  with  the 

Eagle  through  the  grey  shadows  of  evening,  leaving 

Raven  Hair  to  await  the  darkness  before  she  went 

back  to  the  camp. 


CHAPTER  XIX 
THE  WHITE  MAN'S  FRIEND 

NIGHT  had  fallen  upon  the  camp  of  the  starving 
Sacs.  Night  noises  of  nature  were  in  the  air. 
The  rustling  river  whispered  to  its  banks.  Crickets 
rasped  in  the  grass.  Frogs  held  sonorous  converse 
along  the  low  margins  of  the  river.  The  owl  hooted 
among  the  trees.  The  night-hawk  called  through 
the  forest.  The  timber  wolf  howled  out  of  the 
distance. 

Among  the  sleeping  Indians  there  was  a  hush, 
save  for  a  low,  grating  sound  that  Light  Foot  made 
as  she  ground  the  corn  that  White  Eagle  had 
brought  her,  and  the  sound  of  her  voice  raised  in 
bitter  complaint.  She  was  kneeling  beside  a  small 
fire  that  blazed  in  the  bark  shelter — the  only  fire  in 
the  camp. 

By  the  side  of  Light  Foot  as  she  ground  her  corn 
sat  Sylvia,  composed  once  more.  The  storm  had  left 
her  soul — left  it  a  crushed  and  twisted  wreck,  but 
left  it  her  own.  She  had  fought,  and  she  had  lost. 
In  her  defeat  she  was  growing  strong  again.  Hope 
was  dead,  but  dread  had  passed.  She  knew  the 
worst.  There  was  nothing  now  that  life  could  bring 
her  which  she  could  not  meet.  The  regret,  the  bit 
terness,  she  could  conquer  in  time.  For  the  present 

242 


The  White  Man's  Friend  243 

she  was  herself — broken,  shattered,  miserable,  but 
herself. 

Eachel  lay  sleeping  fitfully  on  the  ground,  her 
head  in  Sylvia's  lap.  Tears  clung  to  her  dark 
lashes,  for  she  wept  in  her  sleep  over  the  grief  of 
her  sister.  With  an  honest  purpose  she  had  sought 
to  destroy  the  faith  of  Sylvia  in  this  man ;  now  that 
the  faith  was  dead  she  sorrowed.  While  her  soul 
was  not  great  enough  to  grasp  the  immensity  of  the 
tragedy,  the  magnitude  of  the  event  that  had  come 
filled  her  with  a  sense  of  oppression.  The  one  whose 
grief  it  was  had  comforted  her  out  of  her  greater 
strength,  so  that  she  slept  at  last,  fitfully,  weeping 
as  she  slept. 

"Woe  to  Light  Foot,  mother  of  an  evil  son," 
droned  the  old  Indian  woman  as  she  knelt  by  the 
side  of  the  fire,  pounding  corn.  "Shame  and  dis 
honor  are  hers ;  for  the  White  Eagle,  her  son,  is  an 
enemy  to  her  people.  He  has  stirred  the  palefaces 
to  wrath;  but  Half  Ear,  his  brother,  is  a  friend  of 
the  whites,  and  has  lived  in  peace  among  them.  Now 
we  are  starving;  the  White  Eagle  makes  us  starve. 
He  makes  the  whites  seek  our  lives;  but  Half  Ear 
was  their  friend.  Unhappy  is  the  mother  of  an  evil 
son. ' ' 

There  was  the  sound  of  a  footstep  in  the  grass 
close  to  the  shelter.  Some  one  approached,  cau 
tiously.  Light  Foot,  hearing  it,  arose  and  went  into 
the  darkness.  Sylvia  paid  little  heed.  What  was  to 


244  A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

happen  would  happen.  She  had  lost  hope.  She  was 
prepared  for  all  the  misfortune  life  can  hold. 

Light  Foot,  walking  softly  through  the  grass, 
saw  some  one  standing  beneath  the  trees.  She 
stopped  and  challenged  in  a  low  voice.  A  voice 
made  answer — the  voice  of  Eaven  Hair. 

''What  does  the  squaw  of  the  white  man  want, 
that  she  comes  through  the  night  to  the  lodge  of 
Light  Foot?"  demanded  the  old  woman,  gruffly. 

"I  would  speak  with  the  white  women,"  made 
answer  Eaven  Hair. 

The  murmur  of  their  voices  in  the  still  night 
reached  the  shelter ;  Sylvia  might  have  heard  if  she 
had  listened.  She  would  not  have  known  what  they 
said,  for  they  spoke  in  the  tongue  of  the  Sacs.  She 
would  only  have  known  who  it  was  that  came 
through  the  night  to  the  lodge  of  her  keeper. 

1  'What  would  Eaven  Hair  say,  that  she  comes  in 
the  darkness?"  asked  Light  Foot,  jealously. 

Eaven  Hair  hesitated.  "I  have  corn  for  them," 
she  made  venture. 

"Must  corn  be  brought  in  the  night?"  persisted 
Light  Foot. 

The  other  was  silent. 

"What  would  you  say  to  the  white  women?" 
asked  Light  Foot  again,  more  insistently. 

"Light  Foot  is  kind,  Light  Foot  is  good,"  said 
Eaven  Hair,  coaxingly.  "Light  Foot  will  have  pity 
for  the  women  of  the  palefaces.  One  of  their  race 
has  come  and  been  sent  away.  He  could  have  no 


The  White  Man's  Friend  245 

word  with  them.  He  bade  me  bear  it  to  them.  Light 
Foot  is  kind.  She  will  not  deny  it  to  them. ' ' 

The  eyes  of  the  old  woman  closed  to  slits.  She 
looked  at  the  other  craftily,  suspiciously. 

"Must  you  come  in  the  night  to  bear  it  to  them?" 
she  asked,  harping  on  the  point.  "Come  in  the 
morning.  They  are  tired.  They  sleep.  The 
morning  will  do." 

"The  white  man  bade  me  speak  with  them 
to-night,"  returned  Raven  Hair,  too  anxiously. 
"They  will  be  waiting;  they  will  be  glad  for  what 
I  shall  tell  them." 

"Who  is  the  white  man  that  you  so  quickly  run 
with  messages  for  him?"  asked  the  other,  abruptly, 
in  a  tone  full  of  innuendo.  Her  attitude  was  almost 
threatening. 

"He  is  the  friend  of  the  poor  Indian  woman," 
replied  Eaven  Hair,  proudly.  "He  has  saved  her 
from  the  hand  of  her  husband  before  her  people. 
He  kept  the  love  of  her  husband  from  another ! ' ' 

She  spoke  half  defiantly,  to  deny  the  implication 
in  the  other's  tone.  Light  Foot  tossed  her  head 
shrewdly,  without  making  response.  In  the  wisdom 
of  her  years,  she  guessed  near  the  truth.  She  was  a 
woman ;  she  had  known  jealousy. 

"Light  Foot  will  let  me  go  to  them,"  resumed 
Eaven  Hair,  after  a  moment.  "It  grows  late,  and 
Fire  Fly  must  rest  soon." 

' '  Eaven  Hair  will  tell  Light  Foot  what  she  would 


246  A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

say  to  the  white  women, ' '  suggested  the  other,  slyly. 
"Light  Foot  will  bear  them  the  message." 

"Raven  Hair  must  tell  them!"  exclaimed  the 
younger  woman.  ' l  The  word  is  for  them. ' ' 

"Ha!  It  is  not  for  the  ears  of  Light  Foot?" 
cried  she.  ' '  Then  it  is  not  for  the  ears  of  the  white 
women. ' ' 

Before  Raven  Hair  could  make  rejoinder,  a 
shadow  came  from  behind  a  tree  and  Half  Ear  stood 
between  them. 

"I  have  heard,"  he  said.  "I  know.  I  am  the 
white  man's  friend.  They  would  have  slain  him,  but 
I  saved  his  life.  Let  Raven  Hair  speak  with  them 
to-night. ' ' 

Raven  Hair  turned  a  look  of  deep  suspicion  upon 
him.  He  saw  and  answered  it. 

"Half  Ear  tells  the  truth,"  he  said,  solemnly. 
"Half  Ear  is  no  more  as  he  was  in  the  days  that 
have  gone.  Half  Ear  would  help.  He  is  the  white 
man's  friend.  What  did  the  white  man  say?  Did 
he  tell  his  white  sisters  to  come  to  him  through  the 
night,  that  he  might  take  them  to  their  people?  Is 
that  what  the  white  man  would  have  said?  That 
have  I  prepared  to  do.  He  has  said  it  to  me.  Our 
horses  wait  in  the  grove.  He  has  said  it  to  me,  and 
I  have  made  ready  to  do  his  bidding. ' ' 

Raven  Hair,  thrown  off  her  guard,  revealed  with 
a  look  that  he  had  guessed  the  truth. 

"He  said  nothing  to  me  of  Half  Ear,"  she 
observed,  full  of  suspicion. 


The  White  Man's  Friend  247 

1  *  How  could  he  have  told  you  what  Half  Ear  was 
going  to  do,  when  the  brother  of  Half  Ear 
listened?"  explained  the  Indian.  "Does  not  the 
brother  of  Half  Ear  know  Half  Ear's  name  in  the 
English  tongue?  Look!  We  lose  time.  We  must 
hasten.  It  is  better  that  Raven  Hair  should  go  her 
way,  lest  some  see  her  talk  with  the  women  of  the 
whites  and  think  evil  of  it.  It  is  better  that  Raven 
Hair  should  go  among  the  old  women  and  let  them 
see  her,  that  they  may  think  no  evil.  I  will  take  the 
pale  face  squaws  on  the  horses  that  are  waiting. 
To-morrow  we  shall  be  far  away.  And  to-morrow 
the  Hawk  starts  for  the  Father  of  Waters  in  flight. 
He  dare  not  pursue  us,  lest  he  fall  into  the  hands 
of  the  whites." 

Raven  Hair,  full  of  doubt,  was  at  a  loss. 

"Come,"  said  Half  Ear,  addressing  himself  to 
her, ' '  Raven  Hair  must  not  be  seen  here  talking.  She 
must  go  among  the  old  women  and  speak  not  of  the 
white  man.  I  am  the  white  man's  friend;  I  will  do 
his  will." 

Taking  her  by  the  arm,  he  led  her  into  the  dark 
ness  toward  the  place  where  the  women  were.  So 
far  his  plans  were  working  well.  It  was  his  first 
return  to  the  main  band  since  his  meeting  with  Frake 
at  Kellogg's  Grove,  where  he  had  loitered  after  the 
departure  of  the  band  that  had  billed  the  men  that 
Lincoln  found.  Half  Ear  had  come  away  full  of 
schemes  to  abduct  the  white  women,  made  bold  by 


248  A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

the  reward  offered  by  the  government  for  their  re 
turn,  and  by  the  inducement  Frake  had  added. 

Eeturning,  he  had  fallen  in  with  another  band  of 
Sacs  and  joined  them,  for  his  own  safety.  Luck 
had  placed  Randolph  in  his  hands.  He  had  begged 
for  the  life  of  the  paleface  at  the  time,  thinking  he 
would  gain  favor  with  Frake  if  the  man  were  tor 
tured  and  killed  in  the  presence  of  the  white  woman. 
He  did  not  entirely  foresee  in  what  way  that  would 
benefit  him,  but  his  native  shrewdness  suggested 
that  there  would  be  profit  in  it,  in  the  end. 

The  escape  of  his  victim  disconcerted  him  at  first, 
but  it  indirectly  brought  him  advantage  now  that,  by 
accident,  he  had  stumbled  upon  his  mother  and 
Raven  Hair  and  intercepted  Randolph's  message. 
The  incident  gave  him  an  opportunity  that  he  was 
shrewd  enough  to  seize.  He  would  be  able  to  get 
them  out  of  camp  more  easily.  In  the  circumstances 
Raven  Hair  would  not  reveal  how  they  had  escaped 
when  their  absence  was  discovered  in  the  morning; 
the  women  themselves  could  be  more  easily  induced 
to  accompany  him,  and  the  white  man  Randolph 
would  be  thrown  off  the  track. 

He  had  no  misgivings  that  the  Indians  would  re 
cover  their  captives  if  he  once  got  them  away,  for 
he  had  spoken  the  truth  when  he  said  that  Black 
Hawk  was  going  to  set  out  for  the  Mississippi  in  the 
morning,  and  would  not  risk  stopping  to  hunt  for 
them.  There  would  be  no  danger  of  meeting  any 
roving  Sacs,  for  they  were  all  with  their  chief. 


The  White  Man's  Friend  249 

» 

In  the  morning  they  would  be  thirty  miles  to  the 
southward  in  the  white  man's  country.  There  his 
only  danger  would  be  in  encountering  Randolph ;  for 
he  could  make  satisfactory  explanations  to  other 
white  men,  with  the  corroboration  of  the  women 
themselves.  Wherefor  he  was  in  high  spirits  when 
he  returned  to  his  mother,  who  awaited  him  where 
he  had  left  her. 

"What  will  her  people  say  of  Light  Foot  when 
the  women  are  not  in  her  lodge  in  the  morning?" 
moaned  the  old  woman,  as  he  returned,  fearful  of 
herself.  * '  The  face  of  the  Hawk  will  harden  against 
her;  his  hand  will  be  raised  in  wrath;  she  will  be 
without  honor  among  her  own  people." 

1 1  The  hope  of  the  Sauk  is  with  the  paleface  now, ' ' 
made  answer  her  son,  hearing  her  fears.  "I  will 
take  the  women  to  their  own  people.  I  shall  be  made 
rich.  The  whites  will  be  my  friends,  and  the  friends 
of  my  mother,  she  who  helped  to  free  the  paleface 
squaws  from  the  Hawk.  When  the  war  is  done. 
Half  Ear  will  bring  his  mother  to  live  with  the  pale 
faces;  she  shall  dwell  among  them  in  honor.  The 
Sacs  are  nothing;  the  hope  of  the  Sauk  is  in  the 
whites. ' ' 

With  such  craft  and  device  he  argued,  to  set  her 
mind  at  rest.  She  being  a  mother,  though  of  an  evil 
son,  believed  him  and  was  reassured.  Together  they 
went  to  the  shelter. 

The  fire  had  burned  to  a  red  and  dying  coal. 
Sylvia  still  sat  near  it  on  the  ground.  Rachel, 


250          A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

awakened  by  her  troubled  dreams,  leaned,  trembling 
and  shivering  against  her.  Light  Foot  spoke  to 
them. 

"Half  Ear  is  the  friend  of  the  whites,"  she  said. 
"He  has  come  to  take  the  paleface  squaws  back  to 
their  people.  The  white  man  who  was  here  awaits 
them  in  the  forest.  He  will  take  you  to  safety.  The 
horses  stand  ready.  Make  haste,  before  the  moon 
comes." 

Eachel,  with  a  little  scream,  grasped  her  sister. 
"No!  No!  No!  I  dare  not,"  she  cried. 

"Black  Hawk  leaves  to-morrow  for  the  Father 
of  Waters,"  said  Half  Ear,  urgently.  "He  cannot 
take  the  paleface  women  with  him.  He  will  kill  them 
before  he  goes." 

Eachei,  in  an  extremity  of  fear,  fell  sobbing  on 
her  sister's  neck.  "Oh,  what  shall  we  do  I  What 
shall  we  do?"  she  moaned. 

"We  will  go  with  the  Indian,"  made  answer 
Sylvia,  calmly,  rising  and  lifting  Bachel  to  her  feet. 
"We  are  ready." 

She  confronted  the  lowering  and  sinister  Indian, 
prepared  for  what  fate  might  have  next  in  store  for 
her.  She  did  not  entirely  believe  that  he  intended 
taking  them  to  Mortimer.  If  he  did,  she  could  meet 
the  situation.  If  he  did  not,  she  would  not  be  in 
worse  case  than  she  was  with  these  starving  and 
fugitive  Indians.  She  need  have  no  dread  of  the 
gravest  thing  a  defenseless  woman  has  to  fear  from 
a  man.  That  the  Indians  never  gave  white  women 


The  White  Man's  Friend  251 

cause  to  apprehend.    So  she  would  go  with  him  with 
out  anxiety — having  lost  hope. 

Half  Ear,  seeing  that  she  would  follow,  snatched 
the  bag  of  corn  which  his  starving  mother  had  been 
grinding  and  left  the  shelter  silently,  not  stopping 
to  bid  her  farewell.  Sylvia  and  Rachel  followed, 
disappearing  into  the  night. 


CHAPTER  XT 
THE  CAVE  IN  THE  ROCK 

IT  is  not  pleasant  to  ride  by  night  through  a  lonely 
and  unknown  forest  at  best,  and  terror  stalks 
by  day  in  the  vicinity  of  hostile  Indians.  It  is  pe 
culiarly  unpleasant  when  one's  companion  on  the 
ride  is  an  Indian  whose  inherent  savagery  has  been 
aroused  to  ferocity  by  acts  personally  witnessed. 
Nor  does  it  make  it  better  when  he  is  known  to  have 
recently  been  deprived  of  the  satisfaction  of  pro 
ducing  one's  death  by  slow  torture  and  fire. 

Mortimer  had  sufficient  confidence  in  Black 
Hawk  to  feel  that  he  would  not  connive  at  his  being 
killed  and  scalped  by  one  of  his  young  men  on  a 
journey  assumed  under  his  direction  and  auspices. 
He  could  not  be  equally  secure  in  White  Eagle's 
fidelity  to  the  trust  reposed  in  him  by  the  Hawk. 
He  had  seen  the  young  man  fired  upon  when  he  bore 
a  flag  of  truce  to  the  Americans.  He  himself  had 
thrown  him  from  his  horse  in  flight,  and  deprived 
him  of  revenge.  He  believed  that  White  Eagle  was 
one  of  the  leaders  in  the  belligerent  faction  of  the 
Sacs.  He  considered  it  reasonable  to  suppose  that 
scruple  would  not  deter  him  from  any  act  of  violence 
to  the  white  race.  He  had  personal  and  recent  ex 
perience  to  prove  that  his  present  companion 

252 


The  Cave  in  the  Rock  253 

might  kill  him  without  compunction.  He  realized 
that  all  to  withhold  him  from  the  act  was  a  sense  of 
duty  to  the  chief.  He  had  no  means  of  ascertaining 
how  strongly  that  sense  would  hold  the  Eagle ;  there 
fore  he  was  constantly  on  his  guard  as  he  rode  with 
the  Indians  through  the  dark. 

One  circumstance  aroused  his  caution.  White 
Eagle,  instead  of  bearing  to  the  south-eastward,  in 
which  direction  lay  Dixon's  ferry,  or  to  the  east 
ward,  toward  Koshkonong,  where  soldiers  might  be 
expected  to  be  encountered,  turned  in  a  southerly 
direction  toward  a  point  unlikely  to  be  occupied  by 
troops.  This  led  him  to  doubt  the  sincerity  of  the 
brave,  and  caused  him  added  uneasiness.  He  feared 
that  he  was  being  led  into  an  ambuscade. 

However,  as  the  night  grew  on  and  the  moon 
rose  without  his  companions  doing  anything  further 
to  arouse  suspicion,  he  concluded  that  it  was  prob 
ably  a  strategy  on  the  part  of  the  Indian  to  delay 
his  reaching  General  Atkinson  with  the  message.  He 
had  deduced  from  the  opposition  which  the  White 
Eagle  appeared  to  offer  against  the  sending  of  the 
message  by  the  Hawk,  and  by  his  sullen  deportment 
during  the  last  interview  with  Eaven  Hair,  which 
the  Indian  supposed  to  be  part  of  the  parley,  that 
the  young  brave  was  not  in  sympathy  with  the  nego 
tiations  he  was  intrusted  with,  and  would  be  glad  if 
the  reply  of  his  chief  never  came  to  the  ears  of  the 
American  general. 

Nevertheless,   Mortimer  abated  nothing  of  his 


254  A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

watchfulness.  Tired  as  he  was,  and  occupied  as  was 
his  mind  with  the  prospective  escape  of  Sylvia,  he 
constantly  kept  his  attention  upon  the  Indian  by  his 
side,  and  upon  the  road  ahead,  in  so  far  as  the  dark 
ness  permitted,  to  prevent  a  possible  surprise. 

As  the  night  wore  on  the  other's  taciturnity 
seemed  to  disappear.  He  could  see  by  the  light  of 
the  moon  that  the  sulky  cast  of  the  Indian's  counten 
ance  was  passing,  and  the  sullen  hatred  that  had 
been  in  his  eyes  was  slowly  submerged  in  a  more 
genial  light.  In  course  of  time  White  Eagle  grunted 
a  few  fragments  of  English  words  that  he  had  picked 
up.  They  were  disjunctive  and  not  strikingly  ap 
propriate  to  any  topic  of  conversation  which  they 
might  have  pursued  had  they  been  provided  with  a 
vehicle  for  communicating  their  thoughts,  but  in  the 
circumstances  they  were  highly  eloquent. 

By  an  elaborately  intricate  and  largely  unintelli 
gible  system  of  signs,  too,  White  Eagle,  gradually 
conveyed  to  the  mind  of  Mortimer  that  he  was  not 
insensible  to  the  favor  that  the  white  man  had  done 
him  in  the  episode  at  Saukenuk  the  year  before. 
Mortimer  believed  that  he  detected  a  desire  on  the 
part  of  the  Indian  to  impress  upon  him  the  idea  that 
Feather  Heart  was  especially  grateful  for  that  act ; 
and  that  out  of  respect  for  her,  at  least,  the  Eagle 
would  not  do  the  paleface  damage,  but  was  rather 
inclined  to  be  friendly  with  him,  when  such  a  rela 
tionship  could  exist  between  them  without  sacrifice 
of  principle. 


The  Cave  in  the  Rock  255 

Mortimer  was  not  unaware  that  the  savages  fre 
quently  resorted  to  just  such  devices  on  the  eve  of 
their  most  nefarious  and  brutal  acts,  but  he  was  dis 
posed  to  make  the  most  of  the  necessity  he  was 
under  of  accepting  as  honest  the  other's  demonstra 
tions  and  to  receive  them  with  an  appearance  of 
truth  and  faith.  He  did  not  cease  to  be  wary,  but  he 
felt  less  and  less  apprehensive  of  this  savage;  his 
principal  fear  now  being  that  he  might  be  followed 
by  others  of  the  young  men  not  so  amicably  disposed 
toward  him. 

It  was  nearly  two  in  the  morning,  as  he  judged  by 
the  position  of  the  moon,  when  White  Eagle,  stop 
ping  abruptly  in  the  bottom  of  a  little  rocky  defile 
through  which  a  brook  coursed,  dismounted,  and 
made  a  sign  for  him  to  do  the  same.  He  did  so,  half 
expecting  and  fully  prepared  for  a  lively  denoue 
ment. 

The  Eagle  held  out  his  right  hand.  "Hand 
shake,"  he  said,  laboriously.  "Me  friend.'* 

Nothing  in  the  night  had  so  aroused  Mortimer's 
foreboding.  He  took  the  extended  hand  with  a 
forced  readiness,  smiling,  as  pleasantly  as  he  could. 

1 1  Hand  shake !  Me  friend  too ! ' '  having  been  re 
peated,  the  Eagle  seemed  gratified,  and  threw  him 
self  down  on  the  ground  without  further  ado. 

"Sleep,"  he  grunted,  as  he  stretched  his  splendid 
limbs  upon  the  grass. 

Mortimer,  whispering  Powhatan  to  stand  close, 
lay  down  more  deliberately.  He  did  not  approve  of 


256  A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

the  nature  of  the  place  White  Eagle  had  selected 
for  a  camp.  It  was  deep  and  dark,  with  rocky  banks 
on  either  side  of  the  brook,  which  made  a  double 
bend  through  the  ravine,  so  that  little  of  its  length 
could  be  seen.  The  spot  was  entirely  enclosed.  It 
was  an  ideal  place  for  treachery.  Nevertheless,  he 
could  not  make  objection  without  running  the  risk 
of  incurring  the  displeasure  of  the  Indian ;  a  result 
that  would  aggravate  matters  if  the  case  was  as  he 
feared,  and  which  certainly  would  not  improve  the 
situation  if  his  anxiety  was  groundless.  He  accepted 
the  circumstances,  therefor,  only  resolving  not  to 
permit  himself  to  fall  asleep,  but  to  watch  guardedly 
against  any  surprise. 

The  night  was  warm  and  pleasant.  The  moon, 
which  had  arisen  in  the  middle  of  the  evening,  was 
now  well  down  toward  the  west,  as  he  could  see  by 
observing  its  light  on  the  eastern  rim  of  the  defile. 
The  noises  of  the  night  were  hushed.  Only  the  purl 
ing  of  the  brook,  the  deep  breathing  of  the  sleeping 
Indian  and  the  restful  sounds  made  by  the  browsing 
horses  disturbed  the  silence,  which  they  served 
rather  to  intensify  than  destroy. 

Mortimer  was  weary,  in  body  and  brain.  He 
had  traveled  far  under  great  worries.  He  had  eaten 
little.  His  rest  for  many  nights  had  been  meager 
and  superficial,  compelled  as  he  was  to  be  constantly 
watchful.  The  blow  on  the  head  which  he  had  suf 
fered  in  the  encounter  with  the  Indians  when  he  was 
captured  still  affected  him.  The  physical  and  mental 


The  Cave  in  the  Rock  257 

strain  of  his  experience  as  an  intended  victim  of 
torture  had  exhausted  his  strength.  His  distress  of 
mind  for  Sylvia,  the  bitterness  of  coming  so  close  to 
her  without  being  able  either  to  assist  her  or  speak 
with  her  and  his  anxiety  concerning  her  possible  at 
tempt  to  escape  had  depleted  his  nerve  force.  In 
spite  of  his  necessity  and  his  determination  to  re 
main  awake,  the  soporific  hush  about  him  slowly 
mastered  his  consciousness,  and  he  drowsed  into 
profound  slumber. 

He  was  awakened  by  the  neighing  of  his  horse 
It  was  daylight.  The  first  fact  that  struck  upon  his 
attention,  with  the  force  of  a  blow,  was  that  the 
White  Eagle  was  gone.  Neither  was  the  Indian's 
horse  to  be  seen.  He  was  on  his  feet,  in  instant 
alarm,  fully  awake. 

His  gun  was  at  his  feet.  He  snatched  it  up, 
searching  the  rocky  inclines  about  him  for  sight  of 
a  foe.  A  motion  in  the  bushes  at  the  eastern  rim 
of  the  gulch  caught  his  eye.  He  fixed  his  attention 
there,  just  in  time  to  see  the  head  of  Half  Ear  van 
ishing  from  sight. 

His  first  impulse  was  to  follow,  directly  and  im 
mediately.  Before  he  responded  to  it,  he  considered 
the  possibility  that  the  Indian's  appearance  and  dis 
appearance  at  that  point  were  a  decoy  to  lead  him 
into  ambush.  He  resolved  to  pass  down  the  bed  of 
the  stream  a  short  distance,  climb  the  bank  and 
circle  wide  through  more  open  country  in  order  to 


258          A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

approach  the  ambush,  if  there  were  one  from  the 
safer  side. 

With  this  intention  he  saddled  Powhatan,  who 
stood  nervously  expectant  at  his  elbow,  leaped  upon 
his  back,  and  sent  him  down  the  creek  as  fast  as  the 
rough  character  of  the  footing  permitted.  The 
course  of  the  stream  was  disastrous  to  his  strategy. 
Beyond  the  bend  which  enclosed  the  spot  where  he 
had  been  it  turned  to  the  west,  abruptly,  away  from 
the  direction  in  which  he  wished  to  circle,  and  so 
continued  for  a  distance. 

Nevertheless,  he  rode  down  the  creek  for  an 
eighth  of  a  mile  before  he  turned  to  mount  the  bank. 
Approaching  the  side  of  the  ravine,  he  found  that 
the  walls  were  so  rocky  and  precipitous  and  so 
tangled  with  brush  that  egress  there  was  impossible. 
He  had  already  gone  far  in  the  wrong  direction  in  his 
flanking  movement.  Instead  of  proceeding  further 
down  stream,  he  turned  and  retraced  his  steps,  keep 
ing  close  watch  for  an  opportunity  to  get  out  of  the 
defile,  at  the  same  time  scrutinizing  the  thickets  for 
Indians. 

He  had  nearly  reached  the  place  where  he  had 
slept  before  he  found  a  point  where  he  could  ride 
out.  He  was  at  the  top  of  the  acclivity  in  a  moment. 
A  thin  stnp  of  woods  fringed  the  ravine.  Beyond 
it  was  open  prairie.  He  struck  out  for  it  at  right 
angles.  Once  clear  of  the  trees,  he  rode  to  a  safe 
distance  in  the  prairie  and  turned  his  horse  toward 
the  place  where  he  had  seen  Half  Ear. 


The  Cave  in  the  Rock  259 

No  Indian  was  to  be  seen.  He  scanned  wood  and 
prairie.  He  followed  the  edge  of  the  strip  of  wood 
until  he  had  gone  beyond  the  point  where  Half  Ear 
had  been.  He  was  about  to  turn  in  there,  cautiously, 
when  he  saw  the  tracks  of  a  horse  in  the  wet  grass. 
They  led  away  from  the  ravine,  and  were  fresh. 

Without  hesitation  he  followed  them.  They  were 
easily  seen,  for  the  grass  reeked  with  dew,  and  the 
feet  of  the  horse  had  made  a  vivid  wake  across  the 
prairie. 

At  a  distance  of  a  quarter  mile  was  another 
stretch  of  timber,  wider  and  more  dense,  which 
skirted  a  larger  stream  into  which  the  little  creek, 
making  a  broad  sweep,  emptied  at  a  distance  below, 
where  the  two  belts  of  wood  came  together.  Thither 
the  tracks  led,  and  thither  Mortimer  followed,  urg 
ing  Powhatan  to  speed. 

Entering  the  edge  of  the  woods,  he  came  where 
a  number  of  horses  had  stood ;  he  did  not  stop  to  see 
how  many.  Here  the  tracks  he  followed  mingled 
with  the  others.  He  knew  that  here  the  Indians  had 
joined  companions  and  had  fled  thence  with  the 
other  horses.  He  could  see  their  foot  prints,  not  so 
plainly  as  on  the  open  prairie  in  the  wet  grass,  but 
readily  enough  to  be  able  to  follow  at  a  good  pace. 
There  appeared  to  be  three  or  four  in  the  party. 

Instantly  he  set  out  in  pursuit.  He  knew  that 
he  could  overtake  any  Indian  pony  the  Sacs  had  with 
them,  and  he  was  in  a  mood  to  stop  the  annoyance 
he  had  experienced  from  this  particular  Indian. 


260          A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

Sacs  in  general  he  sympathized  with,  but  this  speci 
fic  representative  of  the  tribe  he  was  willing  to  con 
sider  an  exception. 

He  had  not  gone  a  hundred  yards  before  the 
thought  of  his  rendezvous  with  the  escaping  sisters 
burst  into  his  mind.  It  was  already  daylight;  the 
sun  was  above  the  horizon.  It  was  late  July,  and  it 
could  not  lack  seven  hours  until  midday,  which  was 
the  last  hour  set  between  him  and  Raven  Hair.  He 
had  ridden  slowly  southward  for  nearly  eight  hours. 
The  lake  and  the  rock  and  the  cave,  and  Sylvia,  lay 
a  half  day's  ride  to  the  eastward  from  his  point  of 
departure.  It  all  came  to  him  in  a  flash,  and  he 
pulled  up  short. 

Stopping  for  a  moment  to  make  mental  calcula 
tion  of  the  distance  and  direction  of  the  place  set  for 
meeting  Sylvia,  he  turned  Powhatan  and  started  off 
on  a  brisk  lope,  bearing  a  little  east  of  northeast, 
making  allowance  in  his  course  for  the  slow  rate  of 
travel  southward  during  the  night. 

He  rode  hard  and  pitilessly  through  the  morning. 
His  heart  sank  beneath  many  misgivings,  and  he 
charged  himself  bitterly  with  faithlessness  and  blun 
dering  negligence.  There  were  streams  to  cross  and 
woods  to  penetrate;  the  grass  on  the  prairies  was 
long  and  whipped  about  his  horse's  feet,  retarding 
him.  He  steered  by  the  sun  as  best  he  could,  keeping 
as  nearly  on  the  course  he  had  laid  as  the  topography 
of  the  country  permitted. 

With  every  bound  of  his  tired  horse  the  quest 


The  Cave  in  the  Rock  261 

seemed  more  nearly  hopeless.  To  reach  the  point 
he  aimed  at  in  the  time  that  remained  would  have 
been  difficult  enough,  if  he  had  known  the  way  there ; 
but  the  necessity  of  covering  the  distance  and  find 
ing  the  smooth  rock  before  midday,  traveling  blind 
and  by  guess  as  he  was,  appalled  and  dismayed  him. 
Had  he  been  strong;  had  his  bruised  head  not 
throbbed  with  each  motion  of  the  horse  over  the  un 
even  ground,  his  native  fortitude  and  self-reliance 
would  have  held  him  in  courage.  But  he  was  weak 
and  sick  and  momentarily  grew  more  dizzy  and  faint. 

He  had  ridden,  as  he  guessed,  between  six  and 
seven  hours ;  as  nearly  as  he  could  judge  by  the  posi 
tion  of  the  sun  it  was  eleven  o'clock;  there  was  no 
sign  of  a  lake  before  him.  He  was  on  the  point  of 
concluding  he  had  miscalculated  and  was  not  headed 
toward  the  lake  he  sought,  and  was  about  to  change 
his  course,  half  frantic  with  the  thought  that  he  was 
lost,  when  he  observed  a  high,  sloping  ridge  ahead 
of  him  as  he  came  out  of  a  patch  of  timber.  It  was 
prairie  land,  promising  a  view  of  the  country  about, 
and  he  pressed  toward  it,  with  a  flicker  of  reviving 
hope. 

His  heart  leaped  with  joy  when  he  came  to  the 
top  and  could  look  beyond.  Blue,  serene,  peaceful, 
beautiful,  with  stately  forests  skirting  its  gently 
curving  shores,  stretching  away  into  the  broad  dis 
tance  was  a  lake.  Shouting  in  his  gladness,  he  urged 
Powhatan  into  a  run  and  went  toward  it. 

As  he  was  crossing  a  depression  in  the  interven- 


262          A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

ing  prairie,  eager  and  unobservant,  Powhatan  called 
to  him  with  an  admonitory  neigh.  Mortimer  cast  his 
eyes  about.  Beneath  the  very  feet  of  his  horse, 
extending  to  a  breadth  before  and  behind,  were 
tracks  made  by  many  horses,  fresh  in  the  grass,  lead 
ing  to  the  westward.  He  stopped.  For  a  moment  he 
was  at  a  loss  to  account  for  them,  believing  that  they 
had  been  made  by  Indians.  In  the  next  moment  he 
knew  that  it  must  be  the  path  of  the  army  on  Black 
Hawk's  trail,  and  he  hurried  on  toward  the  lake.  His 
relief  in  the  conviction  that  friends  were  in  the  coun 
try  added  to  his  happiness  in  discovering  the  lake. 
Succor  was  at  hand.  It  only  remained  to  find  the 
rock  and  Sylvia. 

As  he  thought  of  her  once  more,  his  hopes  fell. 
He  had  not  found  her  yet.  What  if  this  were  not  the 
lake?  What  if  the  rock  he  looked  for  were  many 
miles  away  I — for  the  lake  was  large  and  the  location 
of  the  smooth  rock  upon  it  was  indefinite  in  the  de 
scription  that  had  been  given  him.  And  what  if  she 
should  not  be  there  ? 

Agitated  by  conflicting  hope  and  fear,  he 
reached  the  woods  that  fringed  the  banks.  He  had 
come  upon  its  western  edge,  but  near  to  the  southern 
extremity.  The  rock  might  be  far  to  the  northward. 
He  rode  to  the  water 's  edge  to  see  whether  he  might 
not  be  able  to  get  a  glimpse  of  it  from  there.  His 
view  was  cut  off  by  a  wooded  point  extending  far 
into  the  lake,  half  a  mile  above  him.  Beyond  it  there 
seemed  to  be  a  deep,  wide  bight,  for  the  next  point 


The  Cave  in  the  Eock  263 

he  could  see  was  at  a  great  distance.  He  would  go 
beyond  the  point  and  make  a  survey  from  there. 

Powhatan  was  growing  tired.  Randolph  did  not 
urge  him  as  he  had  done,  but  rode  more  leisure 
ly,  walking  and  trotting.  In  the  easier  pace  he 
was  able  to  collect  and  calm  his  thoughts,  and  steady 
his  whirling  brain.  He  kept  close  to  the  water,  for 
the  rock  he  sought,  as  he  understood  it,  was  near  the 
lake.  The  woods  were  free  of  underbrush,  but  were 
so  densely  grown  that  the  view  was  not  extensive. 
As  he  neared  the  point  he  kept  further  in  from  the 
water,  to  save  the  distance  of  the  indentation. 

As  he  was  in  the  midst  of  the  woods,  penetrating 
to  the  other  side  of  the  base  of  the  point,  he  caught 
a  glimpse  of  something  between  the  trees  that  made 
his  heart  stop.  Ahead  of  him,  by  the  edge  of  the 
water,  was  a  great,  gray,  symmetrical  rock,  smoothed 
by  the  wind  and  weather  of  many  a  century  since 
its  fellows  had  fallen  into  decay  and  dust.  Shouting 
in  his  gladness,  he  hurried  toward  it. 

As  he  came  near  he  called  loudly  the  name  of 
Sylvia.  There  was  no  answer.  Yet  it  was  possible 
that  there  was  more  than  one  such  rock.  It  was 
possible  that  there  were  many. 

He  was  at  the  edge  of  the  huge  boulder.  He  dis 
mounted,  not  willing  to  trust  his  haste  to  the  feet  of 
a  horse.  He  ran  around  toward  the  side  that  faced 
the  lake.  He  did  not  call  her  name  now.  He  had 
not  the  courage.  He  would  hope  while  hope  re 
mained. 


264  A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

He  came  to  the  front  of  it.  In  the  middle  was  a 
great  cave,  hollowed  out  by  the  waves  when  the 
shores  were  further  inland.  He  crept  toward  it. 
He  had  not  the  fortitude  to  run.  He  was  at  the 
opening.  The  light  of  day  flooded  the  hollow 
throughout;  for  it  was  shallow.  He  looked  within. 
It  was  vacant.  There  was  not  the  least  sign  of 
humanity. 

He  looked  over  his  shoulder.  The  sun  was  up 
right  above  the  rock. 


CHAPTER  XXI 
THE  BEGINNING  OF  THE  TRAIL 

FOB  an  hour  he  waited.  He  found  berries  in  the 
woods,  and  clams  in  the  shallow  water,  to  stay 
his  hunger  and  to  bridge  the  time.  Powhatan,  ex 
hausted,  lay  down  to  rest,  after  Mortimer  had  re 
moved  saddle  and  bridle.  At  the  end  of  an  hour  he 
replaced  them  and  mounted.  He  retraced  his  steps 
until  he  came  to  the  track  of  the  army.  He  turned 
Powhatan 's  head  in  the  direction  they  had  gone, 
and  urged  him  on. 

Heavily,  wearily,  he  followed.  There  was  noth 
ing  now  but  to  remain  on  Black  Hawk's  trail  until 
— until  that  happened  which  would  happen.  He 
knew  that  there  was  slight  hope  left  in  negotiations, 
after  the  answer  the  old  chief  had  given.  The  hope 
that  remained  depended  upon  his  overtaking  the 
army,  moving  on  Black  Hawk's  trail,  and  preventing 
an  attack  by  it.  It  would  effect  little  to  see  General 
Atkinson,  even  if  he  proved  willing  to  accede  to  the 
Hawk's  terms,  were  these  troops  permitted  to  go 
forward  and  attack  the  Sacs  meanwhile. 

In  two  hours  he  saw  the  rear  of  the  column,  pass 
ing  slowly  across  a  prairie.  He  continued  at  an 
even  pace  until  he  overtook  the  rear  guard. 

They  were  troops  under  General  Henry's  com- 

265 


266          A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

mand;  that  much  he  learned  in  the  first  greetings. 
The  soldiers  paid  little  heed  to  him,  except  to  re 
mark  that  he  had  ridden  hard,  believing  him  to  be  an 
express  from  Fort  Atkinson,  on  Lake  Koshkonong, 
where  they  had  taken  their  departure. 

Without  waiting  to  exchange  talk  with  them,  he 
rode  forward  until  he  found  General  Henry,  who  was 
consulting  with  Colonel  Dodge,  in  command  of  the 
Ouisconsin  troops  that  had  joined  the  command. 

''You  are  not  going  to  attack1?"  he  said,  eagerly, 
without  preliminary,  as  he  rode  up  to  the  command 
ing  officer.  His  hope  in  negotiation  was  slight,  but 
he  would  not  abandon  it  without  a  struggle. 

"I  certainly  am,  as  soon  as  I  can  find  anything 
to  attack,"  answered  General  Henry,  vigorously. 

"But  negotiations  are  under  way,"  pursued  Mor 
timer. 

"Who  are  you?"  demanded  the  general,  bluffly. 
He  did  not  intend  rudeness.  He  only  asked  for  in 
formation.  Mortimer  identified  himself,  overlook 
ing  the  form  of  the  request. 

"Oh,  you  are  the  man,  are  you,"  observed  Gen 
eral  Henry.  "Have  you  seen  the  Hawk,  then!" 

"I  have,  and  he  has  practically  agreed  to  the 
terms,"  replied  Mortimer,  stretching  a  point.  "We 
should  not  attack  him." 

"If  he  has  agreed,  where  are  the  girls?"  de 
manded  General  Henry  pertinently,  in  his  brusque 
manner. 

Mortimer,  somewhat  disconcerted,  explained  the 


The  Beginning  of  the  Trail  267 

details  of  his  conference,  not  yet  mentioning  the  pos 
sible  escape  of  the  Hall  sisters. 

"That  won't  do !"  exclaimed  General  Henry,  with 
emphasis.  "He  's  got  to  come  to  the  scratch.  Be 
sides,"  he  went  on,  "General  Atkinson  has  with 
drawn  his  offer.  It  is  too  late  now.  We  have  orders 
to  punish  him.  He  should  have  answered  before." 

Mortimer  made  the  plea  that  he  had  not  had 
opportunity. 

"Can't  help  that!"  ejaculated  the  other.  "Seems 
to  me  you  are  pretty  anxious  about  the  hide  of  the 
old  fellow?"  he  went  on,  sarcastically. 

"I  am  more  interested  in  the  safety  of  his  host 
ages,  if  they  still  remain  with  him,"  returned  Mor 
timer,  ignoring  the  tone  and  manner  of  the  man. 

"What  do  you  mean,  man?"  demanded  General 
Henry,  catching  the  "if." 

Mortimer  made  answer  at  length,  telling  such 
parts  of  the  story  as  he  considered  of  consequence 
to  General  Henry,  making  two  points.  One  was  that 
if  the  young  women  still  remained  with  the  Hawk, 
an  attack  by  the  whites,  after  the  Indian's  offer  to 
return  them  conditionally,  might  be  fatal  to  them. 
The  second  was  that  if  they  were  fugitives  from  the 
savages,  seeking  shelter  with  their  friends,  they 
should  be  sought  for. 

To  the  first  General  Henry  returned  shortly  that 
they  would  have  to  take  their  chances  in  case  of  at 
tack.  For  the  consideration  of  the  second  he  sent 


268  A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

for  William  Hall  and  William  Munson,  who 
presently  appeared. 

The  wrath  of  those  two  at  what  they  termed  the 
meddling  of  Randolph  in  the  affairs  of  the  sisters 
was  full  and  bitter.  Only  Mortimer's  equanimity 
and  the  interposition  of  the  commanding  officer 
averted  an  open  physical  quarrel.  Mortimer  was 
surprised  at  the  angry  antagonism  of  the  two,  but 
gave  it  little  thought,  having  weightier  matters  on 
his  mind. 

The  band  was  halted  to  discuss  what  had  best  be 
done.  Hall  and  Munson,  arguing  from  their  knowl 
edge  of  women  in  general  and  Eachel  Hall  in  par 
ticular,  maintained  that  they  would  not  venture  upon 
an  attempt  to  escape,  and  were  still  with  Black 
Hawk.  They  urged  immediate  pursuit. 

In  the  end  it  was  decided  that  a  dozen  rangers 
should  be  despatched  to  make  a  search  for  the  girls, 
while  the  others  continued  on  the  trail  of  the  chief, 
now  made  plain  for  them  by  the  report  of  Mortimer. 
Mortimer  himself,  thinking  only  of  Sylvia,  decided 
to  go  with  the  main  body,  believing  it  more  probable 
that  the  sisters  were  still  with  Black  Hawk. 

They  rode  hard,  Mortimer  keeping  up  with  them, 
despite  his  own  fatigue  and  the  exhaustion  of  his 
horse.  As  he  rode  he  learned  of  such  few  events  as 
had  happened  since  he  left  to  seek  the  Indian  chief. 
General  Atkinson,  not  hearing  from  the  message  to 
Black  Hawk,  did  not  long  delay  in  pressing  the  pur 
suit.  The  militia  and  a  body  of  regulars  marched 


The  Beginning  of  the  Trail  269 

northward  along  the  Rock  River  to  Lake  Koshko- 
nong,  in  search  of  the  Sacs,  who  skillfully  eluded 
them.  At  Watertown,  in  southern  Wisconsin,  a  large 
body  of  the  militia  was  sent  home  because  of  a 
failure  in  provisions,  the  rest  taking  up  the  trail 
which  they  discovered  leading  toward  the  Ouisconsin 
river.  Among  those  thus  dismissed  from  service  was 
Abraham  Lincoln. 

Late  in  the  afternoon  the  soldiers  came  to  the  site 
of  the  camp  on  the  bank  of  the  Ouisconsin.  All  about 
were  the  signs  of  hasty  departure.  Fires  where  the 
Indians  had  cooked  the  crumbs  of  corn  brought  them 
by  the  raiders  were  scarcely  cold.  The  ashes  were 
fresh  and  undisturbed.  A  few  utensils  lay  about, 
abandoned,  being  of  no  further  use  to  the  Indians, 
who  had  nothing  to  cook  in  them.  There  was  a  fresh 
grave  by  the  banks  of  the  river,  which  the  soldiers, 
in  brutal  spite,  uncovered  as  they  hurried  through 
the  place. 

They  rode,  before  they  stopped  to  eat  and  rest, 
until  it  was  so  dark  that  they  were  in  danger  of  miss 
ing  the  trail.  Mortimer  had  difficulty  in  continuing 
on  with  them.  He  was  weak  from  exhaustion  and  hun 
ger,  and  a  feeling  of  sickness  crept  over  him  from 
time  to  time.  His  head  reeled  and  a  cold  tingling 
numbness  passed  over  his  skin,  like  wind  squalls 
across  the  surface  of  water.  The  fatigue  of  Pow- 
hatan,  too,  was  pitiable  and  reacted  upon  the  condi 
tion  of  his  master,  bringing  it  still  lower. 

The  soldiers  gave  him  a  bit  of  corn  cake,  some 


270          A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

jerked  venison,  and  a  tin  of  weak  coffee.  It  was  all 
they  had  that  night.  Their  provisions  were  running 
low,  and  they  could  not  tell  when  more  would  be  sent 
them.  Famishing  as  he  was,  he  could  scarcely  eat 
the  little  they  gave  him.  He  put  what  he  could  not 
eat  into  his  pocket,  and  lay  down  upon  the  ground 
to  sleep,  depressed  and  dizzy. 

As  soon  as  the  dusk  of  morning  showed  them  the 
way,  the  troops  were  in  motion  again,  not  stopping 
to  heat  water  for  coffee.  The  trail  was  plain  before 
them.  Marks  of  horses'  hoofs  and  prints  of  naked 
feet  were  in  the  path  that  led  northward  along  the 
river.  On  either  side  the  grass  was  crushed  and 
trampled. 

Mortimer,  still  dizzy  and  with  the  little  cold  skin 
squalls  sweeping  over  his  body,  rode  in  the  forefront. 
Powhatan  had  recuperated  somewhat,  and  was  able 
to  maintain  the  pace  without  distress  to  himself  or 
rider.  The  soldiers,  revived  in  spirit  by  signs  of 
their  quarry,  shouted  and  laughed  as  they  rode, 
flinging  coarse  jests  back  and  forth  and  towsling 
each  other  in  rough  play. 

Mortimer,  in  no  mood  to  witness  such  a  display 
of  humor,  rode  a  little  ahead.  The  sun,  above  the 
horizon,  struck  among  the  boles  of  the  trees,  light 
ing  the  grass  or  sending  long  shadows  across  it.  The 
birds  twittered  busily  in  the  day's  work.  Mists 
steamed  up  from  marshes  across  the  river.  The  loud, 
rude  noises  of  the  boisterous  troops  jangled  harshly 
on  the  serene  peace  of  the  morning. 


The  Beginning  of  the  Trail  271 

As  he  went  forward,  miserable  in  body  and  mind, 
Mortimer  kept  close  watch  ahead,  hoping  against  all 
reason  that  he  might  yet  avert  a  tragedy  if  he  should 
be  first  to  see  Black  Hawk's  band.  Riding  among 
the  trees,  his  eye  caught  sight  of  the  tuft  of  an  In 
dian's  scalp  lock  at  the  foot  of  an  oak,  and  a  dusky 
form  laying  half  concealed  behind  it.  He  glanced 
over  his  shoulder  to  make  sure  that  he  was  not  ven 
turing  too  far  from  the  troops,  and  went  cautiously 
forward. 

The  Indian  did  not  stir.  He  came  within  a  dozen 
paces,  stopped,  and  called  to  him.  There  was  no  re 
sponse.  He  went  to  the  foot  of  the  tree,  keeping 
close  watch  on  both  sides  as  he  proceeded.  He  passed 
around  the  trunk.  The  Indian  lay  still,  face  down 
ward.  He  spoke  to  him  again.  There  was  no  an 
swer  of  voice  or  muscle.  He  dismounted  from  his 
horse  and  touched  the  prostrate  form.  It  was  cold. 
The  Indian  was  dead. 

It  was  the  body  of  an  old  brave,  horribly  emaci 
ated.  The  scalp  lock  was  a  thin  wisp  of  white  hair, 
tinged  with  yellow  from  excess  of  age.  He  turned 
the  face  upward  gently  with  his  hand.  The  agony 
of  the  death  he  had  died  was  in  the  open,  sight 
less  eyes,  the  twisted  lips,  the  sunken  cheeks. 

A  squad  of  soldiers,  seeing  him  kneeling  behind 
the  tree,  hastened  up. 

"What  you  found!"  demanded  one  gruffly. 

He  looked  up.    It  was  William  Hall. 

"Do  you  know  what  this  means,  men?"  said 


272          A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

Mortimer,  rising,  appalled  by  the  spectacle.  "This 
savage  has  starved  to  death  1 ' ' 

"That's  a  good  way  for  'em  to  die;  saves  pow 
der,"  laughed  William  Hall.  "Here!  Wait  till  I 
get  his  scalp. '  * 

Hall  leaped  from  his  horse  and  hurried  to  the 
side  of  the  dead  body,  drawing  his  knife  as  he  went. 

"For  the  love  of  God,  man!"  cried  Mortimer, 
aghast.  "You  will  not  mutilate  the  dead?" 

* '  You  go  to  hell,  Eandolph ! ' '  roared  Hall,  flaring 
into  anger.  "Is  it  any  of  your  business?  You're 
altogether  too  friendly  with  these  Indians  for  your 
own  good !  I  know  you !  These  boys  know  all  about 
you !  I've  told  'em ;  and  they  won't  put  up  with  none 
of  your  tricks.  You'd  better  tend  to  your  own  af 
fairs!" 

He  was  down  on  his  knees  at  the  side  of  the  dead 
Indian.  His  knife  reached  for  the  naked,  withered 
crown.  Mortimer,  with  a  cry  of  wrath  and  horror, 
grappled  with  him.  Hall  threw  him  off  with  ease, 
so  great  was  his  assailant's  weakness. 

'  *  Now  see  here ! "  he  bellowed,  taking  him  by  the 
throat  and  raising  the  knife  threateningly,  "you 
leave  me  alone,  or,  by  God,  I'll  make  you!" 

Three  or  four  of  the  soldiers,  who  had  dis 
mounted,  grasped  Mortimer's  arms  and  held  him 
helpless. 

"Let  him  alone,"  they  growled  to  Mortimer, 
with  ugly  looks.  "He  owes  it  to  'em." 

Mortimer,  rendered  powerless  to  interfere  phy- 


The  Beginning  of  the  Trail  273 

sically  and  knowing  the  futility  of  words,  held  his 
peace.  Hall  glanced  fiercely  at  him  and  returned 
to  the  body.  He  made  a  few  clumsy  gashes  of  his 
knife  through  the  thin  flesh  against  the  skull,  twisted 
his  hand  in  the  thin  white  hair,  and  jerked.  The 
scalp  came  away. 

"You  mind  your  business  after  this,  Randolph, 
or  you'll  be  sorry,"  growled  William  Hall,  close  to 
his  face. 

The  others,  muttering  warnings,  released  their 
hold.  Mortimer  mounted  Powhatan  and  rode  on. 
He  was  not  angered  against  them.  He  would  not 
quarrel  with  them.  He  had  other  work  to  do.  He 
was  only  filled  with  horror,  and  marvel  that  such  a 
one  as  this  man  should  be  brother  to  Sylvia  Hall. 

All  through  the  weary,  wicked  day  they  rode,  and 
into  another  day.  From  time  to  time  those  in  front 
broke  into  clamorous  and  exultant  shouts,  and  those 
behind  presently  passed  bodies  of  Indians,  scalped 
and  bleeding,  who  had  fallen  famished  by  the  way 
side.  Children  there  were,  with  shrunken  frames, 
who  had  lain  moaning  until  the  soldiers  came,  when 
they  moaned  no  more;  old  women  whose  grey  hair 
fell  over  their  haggard,  staring  faces.  Mortimer  did 
not  know  that  one  of  these  was  Light  Foot,  mother 
of  Half  Ear.  If  he  had  known,  he  would  have  felt  a 
deeper  pity. 

The  trail  was  ghastly  with  sights  of  death  and 
despair.  To  the  horror  of  it  in  Mortimer's  mind  was 
added  the  dread  of  what  might  befall  Sylvia,  fleeing 


274  A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

with  the  starving,  fugitive  Indians;  Sylvia,  weak, 
soft,  tender,  gentle,  beautiful.  His  head  reeled;  his 
skin  was  parched  and  hot. 

It  was  the  afternoon  of  the  second  day.  The  sun 
in  its  declining  course  passed  behind  a  dark  and 
murky  cloud.  Lightning  flashed  across  the  heavens ; 
thunder  rolled  through  the  woods.  Raindrops  pat 
tered  on  the  leaves  and  dashed  little  spurts  of  dust 
from  the  dry  ground.  The  storm  broke  in  wild,  fan 
tastic  fury.  The  bodies  of  dead  and  dying  Indians, 
lying  along  the  trail,  spattered  and  drenched,  showed 
in  the  lurid  lightning.  Mortimer  lifting  his  face  to 
the  lowering  sky,  made  a  silent  prayer  for  the  safety 
of  his  beloved.  If  the  Indians  died,  how  should  the 
white  woman  escape! 

The  swiftly  moving  column  came  to  the  edge  of 
a  prairie  that  opened  to  the  river.  Beyond  it  rose 
the  heights  of  the  Ouisconsin.  Beyond  the  heights 
was  low,  swampy  ground  where  the  river  shallowed 
and  could  be  crossed.  It  was  this  crossing  which  the 
Hawk  strove  to  reach  before  his  relentless  pursuers. 

Looking  beyond  the  prairie  Mortimer  saw,  in  the 
daylight  that  remained,  the  last  of  the  Indians  strag 
gling  and  struggling  up  the  heights,  dragging  their 
weary,  bloodless  limbs  across  the  steep  places.  He 
could  have  cried  out  in  his  pity  for  them  —  and  his 
distress  for  his  beloved. 

The  soldiers  saw  also.  Sounding  the  army  cry, 
they  put  spurs  to  their  horses  and  urged  them  for 
ward  with  voice  and  lash.  Living  excitement  ran 


The  Beginning  of  the  Trail  275 

through  the  command.  Men  came  hurrying  out  of 
the  woods  where  the  column  still  passed  and  rushed 
across  the  plain.  As  they  hastened  forward  the  rain 
ceased,  —  and  Mortimer's  fears  for  Sylvia  rose 
higher.  What  would  Black  Hawk  do  with  his  pris 
oners  when  the  soldiers  attacked? 

A  shot  rang  out  from  the  thicket  on  the  crest  of 
the  ridge.  The  Indians  had  made  a  stand.  The 
soldiers  in  advance  paused.  Their  comrades  came 
up.  The  men  dismounted.  The  line  of  battle  formed 
It  swept  up  the  hill,  the  men  firing  as  they  ran  from 
tree  to  tree.  The  Indians  made  answer,  fifty  against 
four  hundred.  It  was  the  White  Eagle  with  the 
young  men  of  the  tribe,  covering  the  retreat  of  Black 
Hawk  across  the  Ouisconsin. 

Up  the  ridge,  from  tree  to  tree,  crept  the  four 
hundred.  The  flash  of  rifle  fire  gleamed  through  the 
gathering  dusk,  along  the  top  of  the  ridge,  and  over 
its  slopes.  Bullets  whined  through  the  air;  the 
grunts  and  moans  of  the  stricken  filled  the  evening. 
The  fifty  stood  well.  They  became  forty,  and  thirty, 
and  still  stood  their  ground. 

Mortimer,  thinking  only  to  succor  his  beloved, 
went  in  the  forefront,  musket  in  arm  He  did  not 
load  and  fire.  The  pity  of  it  all  was  upon  him.  He 
only  went  that  he  might  save  Sylvia  in  her  extremity. 

1  'Charge." 

General  Henry  broke  through  the  line,  sword  in 
hand. 


276          A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

"Charge!"  Colonel  Dodge,  further  along  the 
ridge,  echoed  the  order. 

The  soldiers  dashed  up  the  slope.  The  Indians 
held  their  ground.  The  soldiers  closed  with  them, 
musket  butt  to  hatchet.  The  Eagle,  watching  the 
willow  fringed  islands  in  the  river,  cried  out  a  sig 
nal.  The  Indians,  such  as  were  left,  turned  and  fled 
down  the  hill.  The  Hawk  was  safe. 

The  soldiers  followed  the  fleeing  savages  into  the 
ravine  beyond  the  ridge,  where  the  gathering  dark 
ness  obscured  the  enemy.  Night  was  upon  them, 
and  they  halted,  glorying  in  their  victory  over  a 
famished  foe. 

Mortimer,  sick  at  heart,  weary  and  oppressed, 
sought  out  Powhatan  from  among  the  horses  the 
soldiers  had  left  when  they  went  into  the  fight,  cared 
for  him  with  loving  hand,  and  lay  to  rest  close  by 
him,  having  no  other  comfort  in  his  heavy  misgivings 
for  the  safety  of  Sylvia. 


CHAPTER  XXII 
THE  END  OF  THE  TRAIL, 

IN  the  midst  of  the  night  there  came  a  cry  to  the 
ears  of  the  slumbering  soldiers ;  a  long,  low,  son 
orous  cry,  intoned  from  the  top  of  the  hill  beyond. 
Mortimer,  hearing  it  in  his  sleep,  awakened  with  a 
start.  It  fitted  his  dreams.  He  had  dreamed  of 
Sylvia,  done  to  death  by  the  savages,  calling  to  him. 
He  listened.  Not  hearing  it  again,  he  thought  it  was 
from  his  dreams,  and  turned  to  go  to  sleep  once 
more. 

Turning,  a  hot,  tingling  flush  went  through  him. 
His  head  whirled.  He  put  his  hand  to  his  brow  to 
steady  it.  It  was  dry  and  hot  and  throbbing.  The 
trees  above  him  and  the  shadow  of  the  hill  assumed 
a  vastness,  and  overpowering  immensity  that  was  de 
lirium.  His  weakened  limbs  shivered  and  trembled. 
Fever  was  upon  him.  His  heart  sank  beneath  the 
knowledge.  Not  for  himself,  but  for  her  whom  he 
would  save.  He  set  his  determination  against  it, 
composing  himself  to  sleep  by  sheer  force  of  will. 

Into  his  ears  there  came  again  the  cry.  Chills 
coursed  through  him  at  the  sound.  He  tried  to  rise. 
He  could  not.  The  effort  only  sent  the  cold  more 
swiftly  through  his  weakened  frame.  He  lay  still, 
listening.  It  came  again.  He  knew  it  to  be  the  call 

277 


278          A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

of  an  Indian.  He  knew  that  the  Hawk  wished  to 
parley.  He  waited  to  hear  an  answer,  intense,  ex 
cited.  He  was  like  one  at  a  play.  He  awaited  the 
event  as  one  who  watched  it,  having  no  part.  He  no 
longer  strove  to  rise,  to  answer  the  call,  to  bring 
about  a  parley,  to  put  an  end  to  the  horror  of  tlie 
chase,  to  save  the  life  of  his  beloved.  Like  one  hav 
ing  no  volition,  he  waited  for  some  one  else  to  do  it, 
taking  no  part  himself.  Waiting,  he  passed  into 
troubled  slumber,  full  of  fantastic  dreams,  and  so 
slept  fitfully  till  morning. 

In  the  morning  he  was  better,  but  the  fever  still 
fought  for  possession  of  him.  He  said  nothing  of 
it  to  his  companions,  who  had  been  surly  to  him  since 
his  encounter  with  William  Hall.  He  ate  what  he 
could  of  the  food  they  grudgingly  offered  him,  scanty 
and  poor  at  best,  and  waited  for  the  next  step  in  the 
drama,  unable  to  think  into  the  future,  glad  only  to 
rest  on  the  grass  for  the  present. 

General  Henry,  going  to  the  top  of  the  heights  in 
the  morning,  gazed  across  the  river,  cursing  and 
stamping  his  feet.  The  Hawk  had  flown  from  his 
island  in  the  night.  His  soldiers  had  little  food  left. 
They  could  not  pursue  until  General  Atkinson  came 
with  the  regulars  and  more  provisions.  He  sent  an 
express  to  report  the  fight  and  to  hasten  forward  the 
others.  Having  done  that,  he  abandoned  himself  to 
impatience,  and  waited.  In  a  day  General  Atkinson 
arrived,  with  commissary.  The  troops  moved  at 
once  in  the  direction  which  the  Hawk  had  taken. 


The  End  of  the  Trail  279 

Mortimer,  slowly  burning,  half  dazed,  scarcely 
knowing  what  he  did,  or  why,  went  with  them, 
mounted  on  Powhatan,  who  had  been  refreshed  and 
strengthened  by  his  rest.  He  rode  in  the  van,  his 
head  afloat  and  his  spirits  sunken.  His  companions, 
looking  into  his  burning  brown  eyes  and  seeing  the 
look  on  his  face,  pointed  at  him,  touching  their  fore 
heads  and  chuckling.  He  did  not  know,  nor  would 
he  have  cared. 

The  way  was  easy  to  trace.  The  bodies  of  In 
dians,  fallen  famished  by  the  side  of  the  path, 
aroused  no  further  interest  now  than  that  they 
blazed  the  trail.  They  found  horses  that  had  suc 
cumbed  to  starvation  and  exhaustion  and  been  par 
tially  eaten  by  their  masters,  ere  they  hurried  for 
ward  to  escape  the  vengeance  that  pursued.  There 
was  no  pity  for  them.  There  was  only  exultation 
and  rejoicing  among  the  following  soldiers. 

Mortimer,  riding  far  ahead  on  a  morning,  half 
delirious,  saw  a  squaw  seated  by  the  side  of  the  trail, 
her  head  hanging  on  her  sunken  breast,  her  bare 
and  bleeding  limbs,  little  more  than  bundles  of  bone, 
folded  beneath  her.  In  her  lap  was  a  tiny  bundle, 
wrapped  in  a  blanket.  Something  about  the  woman 
recalled  Mortimer's  wandering  faculties,  flashed 
memory  and  rationality  into  his  brain.  He  looked 
more  closely  at  her.  It  was  Raven  Hair. 

He  spurred  his  horse.  She  did  not  raise  her  head 
as  he  drew  up  beside  her  and  dismounted. 


280  A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

"Let  the  white  man  finish  his  work!"  she  said, 
in  even  voice. 

' '  Eaven  Hair ! "  he  cried,  laying  his  hand  gently 
on  her  shoulder,  "You,  too?" 

She  looked  up  at  him.  Her  eyes  were  sunken, 
her  face  a  shadow.  Yet  a  light  passed  across  it  as 
she  recognized  him.  "Let  the  white  man  finish  his 
work,"  she  said  again,  in  the  same  even  voice. 
"Raven  Hair  would  have  crossed  the  river  to  lay 
her  Fire  Fly  far  from  the  hand  of  the  white  man  who 
has  slain  him,  but  her  time  has  come.  Let  the  white 
man  finish  his  work." 

Mortimer  lifted  the  corner  of  the  blanket  that 
covered  the  bundle.  Beneath  was  a  baby  dead,  hor 
rible. 

"God!"  he  muttered,  closing  his  eyes  to  the  sight. 

Eaven  Hair,  replacing  the  blanket  which  he  had 
let  fall,  was  silent. 

"Gome!  Quick!  Take  my  horse,"  said  Mor 
timer,  full  of  compassion,  remembering  what  he 
owed  to  the  woman.  "I  will  bury  the  child.  Leave 
it  with  me.  I  shall  not  let  them  harm  it." 

"Fire  Fly  died  in  the  arms  of  Eaven  Hair;  in 
the  arms  of  his  mother  he  shall  rest  when  she  dies," 
returned  the  woman  doggedly. 

The  sound  of  horses  came  closer  in  the  trail  be 
hind.  Without  thinking  what  he  did,  Mortimer 
raised  the  woman,  pitiably  light,  in  his  arms  and 
placed  her  on  the  horse,  before  she  could  resist. 


The  End  of  the  Trail  281 

"He  will  return  to  me,"  he  said.  "I  will  find 
the  horse  at  the  river." 

"The  white  man  is  good;  Fire  Fly  will  sleep  in 
the  land  of  the  loways,  among  his  ancient  people," 
said  the  woman,  who  thought  only  of  saving  her 
dead  child  from  sacrilege. 

A  word  from  his  master,  and  Powhatan,  with  a 
whinny  of  unwillingness,  bounded  down  the  trail 
just  as  Hall  and  Munson  appeared  behind  with  some 
of  the  soldiers. 

"There  's  the  cursed  squaw  now!"  cried  Hall  to 
Munson,  and  the  two  beat  their  horses  into  run,  fir 
ing  a  shot  after  the  retreating  Indian. 

Mortimer  would  not  have  understood  what  they 
meant  had  he  attended  to  their  words;  and  he  did 
not  listen.  For  as  he  saw  Powhatan,  breaking  into  a 
run  under  the  urging  of  his  rider,  distance  the  pur 
suers  and  disappear  through  the  trees,  he  remem 
bered  that  he  had  not  learned  of  the  woman  the  one 
thing  he  would  have  given  his  soul  to  know, — the  fate 
of  Sylvia.  Recalling  that,  he  burst  forth  into  a  laugh 
that  sent  the  blood  chilling  through  the  veins  of 
those  who  heard  it. 

The  soldiers,  looking  askance  at  him  as  he  stag 
gered  along,  laughing  and  muttering  to  himself, 
passed  him  rapidly.  General  Atkinson,  coming  upon 
him  and  recognizing  him  through  the  spectral 
shadow  of  his  delirium,  called  an  orderly  to  him. 

"Find  that  man  an  animal  and  get  the  surgeon 
for  him,"  he  said.  "He  is  sick.  Get  him  a  pack 


282          A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

animal,  anything, ' '  added  the  general,  seeing  the  per 
plexity  in  the  soldier's  face  and  interpreting  it. 

The  orderly,  saluting,  went  to  Mortimer  and  took 
him  by  the  arm,  with  some  apprehension.  Mortimer 
looked  vacantly  at  him,  and  laughed. 

"I  guess  I  am  only  sick,  my  fellow,"  he  faltered. 
"Have  you  seen  Sylvia  anywhere?" 

The  soldier,  kind  in  his  rough  way,  stayed  by  him 
until  the  surgeon  came.  He  gave  him  what  he  could 
to  soothe  him  and  relieve  him  of  his  fever. 

"  Seems  to  have  been  through  a  hard  strain 
which  has  broken  him  up  pretty  well,"  he  reported 
to  General  Atkinson.  "I  should  judge  the  man  was 
half  starved.  It's  just  a  touch  of  the  fever.  He  'd 
be  all  right  in  a  jiffy  with  rest  and  proper  care. 
Shame  he  can't  be  taken  somewhere.  Nothing  for 
it  but  for  him  to  stay  with  the  army,  though. ' ' 

There  were  a  number  of  pack  animals  to  carry 
provisions,  some  of  which  had  been  divested  of  their 
loads.  The  orderly,  with  the  kindness  of  a  brother, 
put  his  saddle  on  one  of  these  and  made  Mortimer 
ride  it,  himself  mounting  the  bare  back  of  his  own 
horse.  Thus  he  traveled  through  the  woods  on  Black 
Hawk's  trail,  alone  with  his  fantasies  among  a  thou 
sand  men,  whispering  of  Sylvia  by  day  and  calling 
her  name  as  he  slept  by  night. 

How  long  they  travelled  he  did  not  know.  To 
him  it  was  an  eternity.  One  morning  as  he  rode  he 
was  aroused  from  his  delirium  by  the  sound  of  shout 
ing  and  the  firing  of  guns.  An  excitement  ran 


The  End  of  the  Trail  283 

through  the  column  which  tingled  in  his  blood,  mak 
ing  life  real.  He  awakened  to  a  half  possession  of 
his  faculties.  He  was  only  partially  aware  of 
where  he  was,  and  how  he  had  come  there,  but  be 
neath  his  sensations,  partaking  at  once  of  reality 
and  fancy,  was  a  consciousness  of  why  he  was  there. 
Thoughts  of  Sylvia  mingled  with  his  vagrant  hallu 
cinations  about  her.  These  thoughts  he  grasped  and 
clung  to,  for  the  final  moment  was  come,  and  the  end 
of  the  trail  was  at  hand. 

Riding  toward  the  confusion  and  sound  of  battle, 
which  swelled  constantly  in  his  ears,  ignoring  the 
soldiers  and  ignored  of  them,  he  came  upon  the  scene 
of  struggle.  Black  Hawk's  warriors  were  making  a 
last  stand.  On  one  hand  was  the  Mississippi  River, 
their  goal.  On  the  other  hand  were  the  soldiers. 
It  was  at  the  mouth  of  the  Bad  Axe  River.  A  line 
of  low  wooded  hills  extended  parallel  to  the  Missis 
sippi,  distant  half  a  mile.  Between  the  hills  and  the 
river  was  low  ground,  overgrown  with  thick  and 
tangled  grass,  reeds  and  scrub  willows.  In  the 
stream  were  islands,  covered  with  willows.  An  hour 
sooner  and  they  would  have  made  their  escape.  But 
the  hour  was  not  theirs,  and  now  the  famished  and 
desperate  band  made  a  last  stand,  hoping  that  their 
women  might  find  time  to  cross. 

Of  the  three  hundred  braves  with  Black  Hawk  in 
the  beginning,  not  a  hundred  were  left.  Those  who 
survived  were  weak  and  sick  from  starvation. 
The  militia  and  the  regulars,  strong  and  inspirited 


284          A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

at  sight  of  their  quarry,  rushed  upon  the  braves  con 
fronting  them  along  the  hill.  Mortimer  dismounted 
and  standing  on  a  shoulder  of  the  hill  beyond  the  line 
of  the  fighting,  saw  the  army  sweep  down.  He  saw 
their  ranks  melt  and  scatter  beneath  the  bullets  and 
bayonets  of  the  assailants.  He  saw  those  remaining 
of  the  line  swarm  down  into  the  tall  grass  of  the  low 
land  and  disappear.  Beyond,  at  the  margin  of  the 
river,  he  saw  the  women  and  the  children  and  the 
old  men  leaping  into  the  water  or  standing  stolidly 
to  meet  their  fate.  Weak  as  he  was,  he  cried  aloud 
for  mercy  toward  them  and  went  forward  into  the 
tall  grass. 

His  knees  trembled  beneath  him.  He  reeled  as 
he  walked,  leading  his  horse,  unaware  of  its  presence. 
"Be  strong,  be  strong,"  he  said  to  himself.  "The 
hour  of  need  has  come." 

He  entered  the  low  ground  from  the  hill  above 
the  point  of  contact  between  the  soldiers  and  the 
Indians.  He  was  alone.  He  walked  toward  the 
group  on  the  bank  of  the  river,  searching  for  Sylvia 
there.  He  sang  a  song  as  he  went;  a  hymn  of  his 
childhood. 

The  grass  rustled  at  his  feet.  An  Indian  sprang 
up  and  aimed  a  gun  at  him;  it  was  the  brave  of 
Saukenuk,  the  White  Eagle.  Before  he  could  fire,  a 
woman,  with  the  wreck  of  youthful  beauty  on  her 
face,  arose  beside  the  brave  and  grasped  the  gun, 
speaking  swiftly  to  the  Indian  in  the  Sauk.  It  was 


The  End  of  the  Trail  285 

Feather  Heart.  He  knew  her,  through  the  mask 
of  hunger  and  grief  that  was  on  her  face. 

The  horse  tugged  at  the  lines,  startled  by  the 
conflict.  Mortimer  at  that  moment  remembered  the 
animal.  He  led  it  in  front  of  him,  pointing  to  it 
and  handing  the  lines  to  the  brave.  "Take  him. 
Fly!"  he  cried. 

There  was  no  need  for  them  to  understand  the 
words. 

The  Indian,  looking  at  him,  shook  his  head.  Mor 
timer  pointed  behind  to  where  the  soldiers  were 
hunting  the  Sacs  out  of  the  tall  grass  and  the  reeds 
like  rabbits.  The  Indian  glanced  over  his  shoulder. 
He  gazed  into  the  face  of  the  woman.  He  lifted  her 
onto  the  back  of  the  horse.  Eunning  beside  the  ani 
mal,  he  turned  toward  the  hills  to  the  north,  beyond 
the  lines  of  soldiers.  Mortimer,  watching  them,  saw 
them  reach  the  hill.  He  saw  them  join  another  In 
dian;  a  small,  bent  man  on  a  white  pony.  Even  at 
the  distance  he  recognized  Black  Hawk  in  the  sor 
row-laden  figure.  As  he  watched,  they  disappeared. 
He  turned  and  went  toward  the  group  on  the  shore, 
singing  a  song. 

His  thoughts  wandered.  He  held  them  with  his 
will.  The  soldiers  were  shooting  and  slaying  through 
the  grass  with  mad,  glad  shouts.  The  women  and 
old  men  huddled  closer  on  the  bank.  They  leaped 
into  the  water.  Some  of  them  sank.  Others  reached 
the  islands  close  to  shore. 

There  was  a  sound  in  the  water  below ;  a  hissing, 


286          A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

muttering,  chugging  noise,  a  thick  yellow  smoke 
across  the  sky,  and  a  steamboat  came  toward  the 
group.  At  the  taffrail  trailed  the  American  flag. 
Coming  closer  to  those  who  cowered  on  the  bank  of 
the  river,  Mortimer  saw  the  Indians  wave  a  white 
flag  to  the  boat.  He  heard  them  hail.  He  heard 
parley.  He  saw  a  flash  at  the  bow  of  the  boat  and 
a  rolling,  leaping  cloud  of  white  smoke.  The  roar 
of  a  gun  came  to  his  ears,  and  the  singing  of  the 
missies  that  hurtled  into  the  Indians.  They  were 
firing  canister.  He  knew.  He  had  been  in  the  army 
once.  They  were  firing  into  the  defenseless  savages, 
who  sought  to  surrender.  His  song  changed  to  a 
cry  of  wrath.  He  hurried  to  the  edge  of  the  water. 

There  was  a  moan  in  the  grass  at  his  feet.  He 
saw  a  crouching  figure ;  the  figure  of  a  woman,  a  liv 
ing  skeleton.  She  bent  above  something  that  she 
held  in  her  lap. 

"The  white  man  finishes  his  work,  little  Fire 
Fly,"  said  the  voice  of  the  woman.  It  was  Raven 
Hair. 

He  grasped  her  by  the  shoulder  and  raised  her 
to  her  feet.  She  looked  at  him.  There  was  indif 
ference  in  her  face,  at  first,  and  resignation.  There 
followed  a  gleam  of  recognition  and,  after  that, 
resignation  and  indifference. 

"Where  is  she?  Where  is  she?"  he  asked, 
eagerly. 

A  puzzled  look  was  her  reply. 


The  End  of  the  Trail  287 

"The  white  woman?  The  woman  who  was  with 
you?  My  sweetheart?" 

She  understood  now.  * '  Gone ! ' '  she  said.  ' '  She 
did  not  come  to  you?  She  went  with  her  sister  in 
the  night." 

His  amazement  made  her  continue.  '  *  With  Half 
Ear,  the  friend  of  the  whites ! ' '  she  said. 

His  thoughts  ceased.  He  could  not  comprehend. 
He  did  not  try.  After  all,  what  did  it  matter?  He 
laughed  softly,  to  himself.  "Fire  Fly  is  dead,"  he 
said,  simply. 

She  looked  at  him,  wondering  at  his  unconcern 
for  the  white  woman. 

"Take  him  to  the  land  of  the  loways,"  he  went 
on.  "Look,  there  is  the  river.  Beyond  is  the  land 
you  seek.  I  will  help  you. " 

She  shook  her  head. 

"Come." 

He  half  dragged  her  to  the  edge  of  the  water. 
On  its  surface,  between  the  steamboat  and  the  spot 
where  they  stood,  the  heads  of  swimmers  bobbed 
across  the  waves.  The  boat  was  firing  canister.  He 
could  see  the  shot  skipping  over  the  river's  surface, 
dragging  up  after  it  little  spurts  of  water,  which  fell 
back  in  pretty  dimpling  ripples. 

* '  Swim ! "  he  said,  leading  her  into  the  water. 

With  her  burden  in  her  arms,  she  waded  into 
the  current,  to  her  knees,  to  her  waist,  to  her  breast. 
She  leaned  forward.  She  leaped.  She  struck  out 
with  her  legs,  and  with  one  arm.  The  other  held 


288          A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

something  close  to  her  breast ;  something  black  and 
awful. 

He  returned  to  the  shore,  and  stood  watching.  A 
horse  whinnied  softly  at  his  back.  A  lean  roan  nose 
nuzzled  into  his  elbow.  He  reached  his  hand  up  with 
out  taking  his  eyes  from  the  swimming  woman  and 
laughed. 

' '  Powhatan  I "  he  said,  laughing  again,  softly.  ' '  I 
knew  you  would  come  to  me. '  * 

He  watched  the  woman  swimming.  A  numbness 
crept  into  his  head.  He  laughed  at  it.  The  woman 
was  in  midstream,  swimming  more  slowly.  One 
arm  she  did  not  use.  His  thoughts  floated  above 
him.  He  held  them  until  ha  could  watch  the  woman 
across  the  river. 

The  water  was  filled  with  swimmers.  Many  of 
them  sank.  Those  who  neither  swam  nor  sank,  died 
on  shore  when  the  soldiers  reached  them. 

Raven  Hair  was  beyond  the  center  of  the  sweep 
ing  flood  that  divided  the  bank  from  the  nearest 
island.  She  struggled  through  the  yellow,  lapping 
current  with  her  legs  and  one  arm. 

The  air  was  again  filled  with  noise ;  they  were  fir 
ing  canister.  A  swarm  of  jumping  jets  scattered 
along  the  top  of  the  water,  swift  as  light,  thick  about 
the  woman  who  swam. 

The  water  around  her  was  no  longer  churned  by 
her  strokes.  Peace  came  upon  it.  Her  head  sank 
lower.  It  passed  from  sight.  A  little  whirlpool 
formed  where  she  had  been.  In  the  midst  of  the 


The  End  of  the  Trail  289 

whirlpool  there  floated  a  tiny  bundle,  done  up  in  a 
blanket.  It  whirled  and  tossed  in  the  turbulence. 
Quiet  came  over  the  water.  The  bundle  floated  down 
the  stream  on  the  silent  current,  mysterious,  awful. 
A  man  with  sunken  cheek  and  flaming  eye,  who 
stood  at  a  distance  on  the  bank  of  the  river,  turned 
with  a  laugh  in  his  throat  and  made  his  uneven  way 
toward  the  hill.  At  his  heels  trailed  a  roan  horse, 
wonderingly,  with  ears  erect.  Up  the  hill  they 
passed,  and  over  the  top,  beyond  the  sight  of  those 
who  might  have  seen. 


CHAPTER  XXIH 
RESIGNATION 

SYLVIA  HALL,  erect,  graceful,  certain  of  step, 
with  a  brave  look  in  her  blue  eyes,  slowly  walked 
along  the  street  of  New  Salem.  Her  old  beauty,  the 
beauty  of  youth  and  happiness,  was  gone.  In  its 
place  was  a  new  and  sublimer  beauty ;  the  beauty  of 
sorrow,  of  strength  in  adversity.  She  had  fought 
down  the  past.  She  had  built  up  from  the  wreck  of 
her  heart  fortitude  for  the  future. 

It  was  late  in  August — a  month  since  she  and 
Rachel  had  escaped  from  the  Indians  by  the  aid  of 
Half  Ear.  Their  flight  had  been  without  any  start 
ling  event,  although  Rachel  had  nearly  succumbed  to 
excitement  and  fear.  They  had  found  the  horses 
that  Half  Ear  had  secreted  in  a  glade  half  a  mile 
above  the  Sac  camp,  and  had  ridden  on  through  the 
night,  making  a  wide  detour  to  avoid  the  Indians. 
Then  they  had  turned  to  the  southward. 

Only  twice  had  an  alarm  come  to  them.  Once 
they  had  seen  a  solitary  Indian  making  his  way 
slowly  northward  in  the  first  light  of  the  morning, 
but  had  escaped  his  observation.  The  other  incident 
was  more  exciting.  It  was  later  on  the  first  morn 
ing.  Half  Ear,  leaving  them  in  a  strip  of  timber 
along  the  banks  of  a  stream,  had  ridden  across  a 

290 


Resignation  291 

narrow  prairie  toward  a  smaller  piece  of  woods 
which  he  told  them  concealed  a  ravine  where  they 
must  hide  during  the  day.  Presently  he  had  come 
back  in  deep  consternation,  telling  them  that  a  band 
of  Indians  was  concealed  in  the  defile.  Thereupon 
they  fled  precipitately  through  the  woods. 

They  had  not  been  followed.  Nevertheless 
Half  Ear,  in  a  state  of  trepidation,  had  not  halted 
until  they  had  hurried  many  miles.  Then  he  had 
stopped  only  to  cook  some  of  the  corn  meal  he  had 
taken  from  his  mother, — which  Sylvia  had  not  had 
the  heart  to  eat, — after  which  they  had  ridden  slowly 
southward,  keeping  in  the  timber  as  much  as  pos 
sible,  and  not  resting  until  evening. 

In  the  night  they  had  taken  their  course  again, 
traveling  more  directly  under  the  shelter  of  dark 
ness.  On  the  second  morning  they  came  to  a  grove. 
A  rough  trail  led  through  it,  but  this  the  Indian 
avoided,  keeping  in  the  edge  of  the  woods  until  he 
came  to  the  mouth  of  a  dry  creek,  hidden  by  thickets. 
This  he  entered,  telling  them  that  must  be  their 
hiding  place  until  night. 

Passing  up  the  creek  bed,  they  came  presently  to 
a  pocket,  where  the  bushes  opened  into  a  clear  space. 
Here,  to  the  astonishment  and  dismay  of  the  Indian, 
they  found  a  white  man  sitting.  He  proved  to  be 
Isaac  Frake.  By  what  rare  chance  he  had  come 
there  was  not  revealed  by  him.  He  released  them 
from  their  conductor,  whom  he  took  in  custody,  and 


292          A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

they  went  thence  to  Fort  Armstrong,  where  the  In 
dian  disappeared. 

Frake  brought  them  to  New  Salem;  and  Frake 
now  walked  by  her  side  as  she  passed  up  the  street 
of  the  settlement.  When  she  met  him  in  the  grove 
she  saw  him  without  surprise,  without  fear,  with 
out  concern  for  what  the  meeting  might  signify.  She 
was  prepared  for  anything  that  fate  might  hold  for 
her.  She  was  glad  that  he  released  them  from  the 
hands  of  the  savage,  whom  she  mistrusted  had 
learned  too  much  of  the  ways  of  the  white  man. 

Isaac  Frake  had  been  kind  to  her,  and  to  her 
sister  as  well.  To  herself  he  had  been  almost  tender, 
in  an  uncouth  way.  She  knew  the  meaning  of  it. 
She  had  been  sorry ;  she  surely  had  not  been  glad ; 
perhaps  she  had  been  indifferent.  She  did  not  an 
alyze,  for  she  did  not  know. 

He  had  been  kind  since  they  came  to  New  Salem. 
He  had  been  pressingly  kind,  at  times.  He  had 
stayed  in  the  village  for  no  obvious  reason  other 
than  to  be  kind  to  her.  That  she  understood,  and 
the  reason  for  it.  She  would  rather  that  he  had  not 
remained,  perhaps.  She  had  not  given  it  much 
thought. 

Now  he  had  just  been  telling  her  why  he  stayed, 
and  that  he  wished  to  take  her  with  him  when  he 
went.  She  had  fought  down  the  past  and  was  ready 
to  meet  the  future.  She  was  alone  in  the  world,  or 
would  be  soon,  for  Eachel  was  to  be  married  to  Wil 
liam  Munson  within  a  month.  She  could  not  stay 


Resignation  293 

always  with  her  kin  in  New  Salem.  She  would  not 
do  so,  if  she  could,  yet  she  was  in  a  sense  helpless. 
Fate  had  offered  her  this  refuge. 

If  fate  had  presented  this  to  her  a  month  before, 
or  a  week,  her  heart  would  have  rebelled  against  it. 
If  she  had  permitted  herself  to  confront  the  thought 
of  going  with  this  man  a  month  before,  or  a  week, 
she  would  have  shrunk  from  it.  She  had  subdued 
the  past  in  so  far  as  the  struggle  lay  within  herself; 
she  could  not  have  been  sure  of  conquering  it  if  the 
old  memories  had  been  awakened  from  without,  as 
they  would  have  been  awakened  a  month  or  a  week 
before  by  the  -thought  now  obtruded  upon  her. 

For  until  the  week  before  a  spark  of  hope  had 
lived,  unknown  for  the  most  part,  and  resisted  when 
known.  Until  the  week  before  there  were  moments 
of  weakness  when  her  soul  denied  the  terrible  truth ; 
when  shreds  of  faith  persisted  in  weaving  them 
selves  into  her  life.  But  within  the  week  her  brother 
and  William  Munson  had  returned  from  the  war. 
They  had  told  of  Mortimer  Randolph's  friendship 
with  the  Indians,  and  protection  of  them,  with  many 
exaggerations  and  no  omissions.  They  had  told  of 
seeing  him  give  his  horse  to  the  Indian  woman ;  they 
had  told  how  he  had  sent  her  into  the  river  to  save 
her,  and  had  turned  away  distraught  when  she  was 
killed. 

Last,  and  not  least  for  her  struggling  soul,  they 
had  told  how  he  had  vanished  from  the  face  of  the 
earth  and  had  not  been  seen  again.  That  he  was 


294  A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

dead  she  was  thankful.  It  was  a  wicked  and  selfish 
gratitude,  perhaps,  but  it  brought  its  own  absolu 
tion  ;  for  if  he  was  dead  she  could  hold  to  the  truth, 
and  in  the  truth  there  was  nothing  from  which  he 
deserved  more  than  her  wish  that  he  had  not  lived. 

Now  Isaac  Frake  walked  beside  her  to  know  her 
choice.  "I  don't  want  to  be  hard  on  you,  Sylvia," 
he  said,  humbly.  "I  know  your  feelings.  I  know 
how  much  you  thought  of  this  man,  and  how  bad  you 
feel  about  it." 

She  interrupted  him.  "There  is  no  man  of  whom 
you  may  speak  like  that,  Mr.  Frake,"  she  said, 
quietly,  without  emotion  or  reproof.  • 

"I  know,  I  know,"  he  hastened  to  say.  "I  don't 
mean  that.  I  know  that  is  all  past.  But  I  can 't  help 
feeling  that  you  have  not  got  over  it  entirely  yet. 
It  was  a  terrible  blow." 

She  stopped  him  by  lifting  her  hand. 

"Excuse  me,"  he  apologized.  "What  I  want  to 
say,"  he  went  on,  endeavoring  to  avoid  the  forbidden 
thing  this  time,  "what  I  mean  to  say  is,  that  I  don't 
want  to  hurry  you,  and  I  '11  wait  for  your  answer; 
but  I'  d  like  to  have  you  tell  me  now  if  you  can.  I 
want  to  get  back  to  my  place  on  the  Eock  River. 
I've  been  away  a  long  time,  and  there's  no  telling 
what  has  happened  there.  The  Indian  troubles  are 
all  over  now,  and  we  won't  be  bothered  any  more  by 
them  pests.  I  want  to  get  home,  and  I  want  to  take 
you  with  me,  but " 


Resignation  295 

He  did  not  consider  it  safe  to  conclude  his  qual 
ification.  There  was  a  pause. 

"I  am  not  sure  that  I  should  make  you  a  good 
wife,  Mr.  Frake, ' '  said  Sylvia,  ending  it.  *  *  I  am  not 
sure  that  I  should  want  to." 

"Why  not?"  he  asked,  bluntly,  with  a  general 
intention  of  obtaining  some  specific  basis  for  dis 
cussion  and  argument. 

"I  am  not  sure  that  you  would  be  able  to  make 
me  contented,"  she  replied,  thoughtfully. 

"Why  not?"  he  asked  again,  not  seeing  an  open 
ing. 

'  *  I  have  told  you  that  I  do  not  care  for  you, ' '  she 
made  answer,  frankly,  but  as  kindly  as  she  could. 
"That  is  why." 

"And  I  have  told  you  that  I  don't  care  if  you 
don't  care  for  me  to  begin  with,"  he  rejoined. 

' '  You  should  care. ' ' 

* i  Well,  of  course,  I  'd  want  you  to  before  we  got 
through,  and  I  think  you  would,"  he  asserted. 

Frake  was  sufficiently  shrewd,  but  his  mind  did 
not  move  delicately  enough  for  finesse.  He  was  los 
ing  his  self-possession. 

"I  am  not  sure  that  I  ever  would,"  observed  his 
companion. 

"Now,  Miss  Sylvia,"  rejoined  the  man,  a  little 
less  adroit  in  his  tone  and  manner,  "I  '11  take  my 
chances  on  that." 

"I  am  not  sure  that  I  dare  take  mine." 

Frake  changed  his  tactics.    "I  don't  see  why," 


296          A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

he  said.  * '  You  don 't  know  me  yet.  I  am  sure  I  have 
been  good  to  you — "  she  nodded  her  head  slightly, 
conceding  as  much.  "I  got  you  away  from  that  In 
dian;  there  's  no  telling  what  he  would  have  done." 
She  agreed.  "You  might  never  have  got  that  far 
from  the  Hawks  if  I  had  n't  induced  Governor  Key- 
nolds  to  offer  a  reward.  That  's  what  the  Indian 
was  after  in  the  first  place.  I  brought  you 
down  here ;  I  took  good  care  of  you ;  I  did  not  force 
myself  upon  you;  I  haven't  bothered  you  or  urged 
you ;  I  am  willing  to  wait  for  you  now. ' '  She  nodded 
as  he  catalogued  his  devoted  acts.  "And  if  it  had  n't 
'a'  been  for  me,  you  might  never  have  found  out 
about  that  other  man,"  he  added,  visibly  encouraged. 
She  did  not  nod.  If  he  had  known  the  dangerous 
chord  in  her  mind  which  he  had  tangled,  if  he  had 
realized  how  often  she  had  remarked  that  circum 
stance  in  the  days  of  the  struggle,  he  would  have 
turned  pale;  he  would  have  had  great  cause  to  be 
thankful  that  she  believed  the  other  man  dead. 

He  saw  that  he  had  made  a  mistake,  though  he 
could  not  comprehend  its  gravity,  believing  it  to  be 
only  a  trespass  on  the  forbidden  subject.  He  be 
gan  again  after  a  pause,  in  which  it  became  ap 
parent  that  he  was  to  get  no  help  from  her. 

"If  I  have  been  good  to  you  lately,  you  ought 
to  know  that  I  will  be  after  this,"  he  said.  "God 
knows  how  I  love  you.  I  have  got  a  good  place, 
lots  of  rich  land  and  plenty  of  stock,  and  a  man  to 
help  me  work  it.  I  'm  going  to  build  a  new  log 


Resignation  297 

house.  I  Ve  got  furniture  for  it,  and  utensils.  I 
can  give  you  a  good  home,  and  you  haven't  got 
any  to  go  to.  Where  are  you  going  to  live  ?  Who  is 
going  to  take  care  of  you  in  your  old  age  ? ' ' 

He  did  not  perceive  that  the  inducement  he  held 
out  to  her  grew  to  be  almost  a  threat  in  its  condi 
tions,  or  that  he  was  taking  advantage  of  her  help 
lessness.  She  made  no  sign  that  she  realized  it  as 
she  nodded  her  head  in  acknowledgment  of  the  point 
he  had  driven  home. 

She  made  no  reply.  They  walked  in  silence  until 
they  came  to  the  door  of  the  house  where  Sylvia 
and  Eachel  were  living.  She  stopped  and  faced  the 
man. 

' '  I  wanted  you  to  know  what  was  in  my  mind,  Mr. 
Frake,"  she  said.  "I  wanted  you  to  be  certain  of 
the  considerations  that  might  enter  into  my  decision. 
Are  you  sure  that  it  would  be  fair  to  you  if  I  should 
go  with  you?  Are  you  sure  you  would  care  to  have 
me  go  with  you?" 

She  looked  fully  and  frankly  into  his  face.  His 
eyes  fell  before  her's. 

' '  You  know  what  I  think  about  it, ' '  he  said. ' '  You 
know  what  I  have  said. ' ' 

"And  you  would  like  to  have  me  answer  you, 
now?" 

He  nodded  greedily. 

"I  will  go  with  you  at  the  end  of  a  month,"  she 
said. 

"Oh,  Sylvia,  Sylvia,"  he  said,  with  cumbrous 


298  A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

tenderness.  He  came  closer  to  her.  He  reached 
out  his  hands  to  hold  her.  He  thrust  his  face  toward 
hers.  She  drew  back  with  complete  calm. 

"No.     Not  now.    At  the  end  of  a  month,"  she 
said,  and  entered  the  house. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 
THE  MAN  FROM  THE  DEAD 

ON  a  day  in  August  there  came  into  the  street 
that  ran  between  the  log  cabins  clustered 
about  Fort  Armstrong,  a  man  dreadful  to  look  upon. 
He  was  cadaverous  and  spectral,  with  glistening, 
flaming  eyes  of  brown,  deep  in  his  head,  as  though 
they  had  burned  their  way  through  the  lean  flesh  of 
his  face.  His  skin  was  the  color  of  death,  save  that 
in  each  cheek  glowed  a  round,  red  spot.  He  had 
no  hat ;  his  hair  was  scorched  by  the  sun  of  summer, 
an<l  fell  in  a  tangle  about  his  ears  and  forehead.  His 
clothes  were  tatters.  On  his  naked  breast  were 
wounds  as  though  he  had  pressed  his  way  through 
thick  brush.  At  his  heels  stalked  a  horse,  thin  and 
woeful,  of  a  faded  roan  color. 

An  Indian  lying  in  the  street ;  a  pitiable,  drunken 
Indian,  with  bent  and  cringing  frame,  with  narrow 
eyes,  disfigured,  lacking  half  of  an  ear,  saw  him 
and  arose  from  his  drunken  stupor  with  a  shriek. 
The  man  came  toward  him,  jibbering,  with  a  new 
light  in  his  glistening  eyes.  The  Indian,  seeing  him 
come,  crouched,  screamed,  and  fell  lifeless,  a  prey 
to  terror  and  the  liquor  of  the  whites. 

Soldiers,  hearing  the  scream,  came  running  from 
the  fort  to  see.  The  man  walked  among  them.  They 

299 


300  A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

stood  aside,  appalled.  An  officer  appeared,  cried  out 
an  order,  and  placed  a  hand  gently  on  the  bony 
shoulder  of  the  wanderer.  The  man  looked  at  him, 
vacancy  in  his  glistening  eyes. 

4 'Sylvia,"  he  whispered,  and  laughed. 

They  led  him  into  the  fort.  They  stripped  his 
torn  clothing  from  his  body.  They  bathed  him  and 
cooled  his  fevered  head,  laying  him  in  a  bed.  He 
looked  upon  them  listlessly,  submitting  to  what  they 
did  for  him  without  thought.  The  surgeon,  attend 
ing  him,  gave  him  a  draught.  He  sighed,  and  sank 
to  sleep. 

General  Atkinson,  coming  in  curiously  to  see  the 
stranger  as  he  slept,  gazed  long  upon  the  face,  pass 
ing  from  side  to  side  of  the  bed. 

''It  is  he,"  he  said  at  last;  "the  man  who  went 
to  find  the  Hawk." 

The  man  slept  deeply,  and  long.  When  he  awoke 
the  fever  was  strong  within  him. 

"It  is  going  to  be  a  hard  fight,  and  a  close  one," 
said  the  surgeon,  working  over  him.  "The  man  has 
been  through  some  sort  of  hell,  I  should  guess. 
We  '11  see  what  we  can  do.  I  'd  like  to  hear  him  tell 
about  it.  It  might  be  valuable  to  a  professional  man 
to  hear  his  story. ' ' 

There  was  much  to  agitate  and  excite  the  garri 
son  in  the  fort  through  the  days  that  followed,  and 
the  sick  man  was  forgotten  by  all  save  those  who 
cared  for  him,  and  the  surgeon  who  wanted  to  hear 
his  story.  Black  Hawk  had  been  captured,  betrayed 


The  Man  from  the  Dead  301 

to  his  enemies  by  an  Indian  of  the  Winnebagos  who 
believed  that  it  might  be  worth  while  for  an  Indian 
to  do  the  will  of  the  white  men.  He  had  been  tracked 
to  his  lair  in  the  Dalles  of  the  Wisconsin  through 
this  fellow's  treachery.  Now  Lieutenant  Jefferson 
Davis  had  gone  to  bring  him  to  the  fort,  and  they 
awaited  his  coming  with  lively  expectation. 

Lieutenant  Davis  returned.  Black  Hawk,  riding 
his  white  pony,  unutterably  sad,  ignoring  the  stare 
of  the  soldiers,  rode  at  his  side,  with  a  proud  look. 
Behind,  in  the  escort  of  the  soldiers,  rode  the  White 
Eagle,  the  bravest  and  fiercest  of  the  young  men  of 
the  Sacs.  Behind  them  all,  Feather  Heart,  defiant, 
with  a  spirit  that  rose  higher  under  calamity  and 
ignominy. 

Theiue  was  rejoicing  among  the  soldiers,  who  had 
suffered  much  to  bring  this  thing  to  pass.  There 
were  cheers  and  jubilations.  Between  the  cheering 
lines  rode  the  captives,  haughty  and  disdainful. 

The  Hawk  was  to  be  sent  to  Jefferson  Barracks, 
near  St.  Louis.  Thence  he  was  to  be  taken  to 
Washington  to  be  interviewed  by  President  Jackson, 
and  to  be  admonished.  Jefferson  Davis  was  to  es 
cort  him.  The  young  brave  was  to  be  taken  with 
them.  As  for  the  young  squaw,  she  would  be  given 
into  the  keeping  of  Keokuk,  the  friendly  Sauk  in  the 
land  of  the  loways,  whither  the  imprisoned  chief  and 
the  young  warrior  would  be  brought  after  the  pros 
pective  inculcation  of  moral  doctrines  at  the  hands 
of  the  whites.  Such  were  the  orders,  and  such  were 


302          A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

the  plans.  Their  execution  only  awaited  the  arrival 
of  the  steamboat  Warrior  from  Jefferson  Barracks 
to  bear  them  thither. 

Lieutenant  Jefferson  Davis,  sitting  that  evening 
with  the  officers  of  the  fort  at  the  mess  table,  ex 
changing  talk  with  them,  in  course  of  conversation 
heard  about  the  stranger  who  had  come  among  them 
a  week  before  like  a  man  from  the  dead.  He  lis 
tened  keenly  to  the  story,  fascinated  by  the  romance 
and  mystery  of  it. 

"He  seems  to  be  pulling  through  all  right  now, 
but  it  was  a  close  fight,"  said  General  Atkinson. 
"We  are  rather  impatient  to  hear  what  he  has  to 
say.  He  seems  to  be  some  one  of  consequence.  We 
have  no  idea  who  he  is,  further  than  that  he  was  the 
man  who  undertook  to  bear  the  message  to  Black 
Hawk  from  Dixon's  Ferry." 

Hearing  that  Lieutenant  Davis  sprang  from  his 
seat  with  an  exclamation  of  astonishment.  Without 
pausing  to  explain  he  hastened  from  the  quarters  to 
the  door  of  the  room  where  the  man  lay  ill.  The 
physician,  coming  out  at  the  moment,  encountered 
him. 

"What 'sup? "he  said. 

' '  How  is  he  1 "  returned  Jefferson  Davis,  eagerly 
"He  is  a  lifelong  friend.    I  want  to  see  him." 

"So?"  said  the  surgeon.  "You  can't  see  him 
to-night,  my  lad,"  he  went  on.  "The  fever  has 
broken  and  he  is  sleeping  normally.  He  has  had  a 


The  Man  from  the  Dead  303 

fine  day.    But  you  can  see  him  in  the  morning,  I 
guess." 

The  young  lieutenant  submitted  impatiently  to 
the  necessity,  and  returned  with  the  surgeon  to  the 
mess-room. 

In  the  morning,  before  the  sun  was  warm,  he  was 
knocking  gently  at  the  door  of  the  sick-room.  The 
surgeon  thrust  out  his  head. 

''All  right;  come  in,"  he  said,  in  answer  to  the 
questioning  look.  "Go  easy,  though." 

The  man  lay  on  the  bed,  pale  and  quiet.  His 
eyes  were  closed.  His  hair,  thinned  by  the  fever,  lay 
across  his  high  brows,  bronze  on  alabaster.  Jeffer 
son  Davis  stepped  softly  to  the  side  of  the  bed.  He 
took  one  of  the  thin  hands  in  his  own. 

"Mortimer!  Mortimer!"  he  whispered.  "God 
bless  you !  Mortimer ! ' ' 

1  i  Go  easy,  there, ' '  warned  the  surgeon. 

The  sick  man  opened  his  eyes.  The  glisten  had 
gone  from  their  brown  depths.  He  gazed,  puzzled 
and  questioning  into  the  face  that  bent  over  him. 

"Jefferson,  Jefferson,"  he  said,  "Is  it  you?  Per 
haps  you  can  tell  me.  Something  seems  to  have  hap 
pened.  I  can't  quite  understand  it.  Where  am  I? 
What !" 

He  did  not  finish.  As  he  spoke,  a  change  came 
over  his  face.  A  look  of  pride,  of  coldness,  of  for 
mality  succeeded. 

"Don't  look  at  me  like  that,  Mortimer!"  cried 
the  other,  observing  the  expression.  "It  is  all  right 


304          A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

now.  I  knew  it  was  all  right  as  soon  as  you  werfe 
out  of  sight,  when  you  left  me  at  Dixon's.  I  've  been 
foolish,  Mortimer.  I  want  you  to  overlook  it. ' ' 

The  face  of  the  sick  man  softened. 

' '  I  knew  all  the  time  that  I  was  making  a  fool  of 
myself."  The  other  hastened  on,  earnestly  "I 
knew  that  there  had  been  a  blunder  somewhere.  I 
don't  want  to  know  where.  I  don't  want  you  to  tell 
me  anything  about  it.  All  I  want  you  to  tell  me  is 
that  you  are  well  again. ' '  He  spoke  with  a  pressure 
of  the  thin  and  feeble  hand  that  he  held. 

"Don't  make  me  weep,  Jefferson,'*  said  Mor 
timer,  smiling  at  him.  "Don't  make  me  weep.  lam 
outrageously  weak." 

"Steady,  there,"  interposed  the  physician  watch 
fully.  "Go  easy,  now." 

Mortimer  turned  to  him.  "Doctor,"  he  said, 
"You  need  have  no  worry  for  me  now.  You  have 
done  your  work  too  well  for  that.  I  want  to  talk  to 
this  man.  He  is  an  old  friend  of  mine.  We  were 
boys  together  It  won't  hurt  me  to  talk  to  him;  it 
will  do  me  good. ' ' 

The  surgeon  half  shutting  his  eyes  and  pursing 
his  lips,  scrutinized  them  both  for  a  moment  and  left 
the  room  without  further  word.  The  eyes  of  the 
two  friends  met.  There  was  a  moment  of  bounteous 
silence. 

"It  is  a  mistake,  Jefferson,"  said  Mortimer, 
presently.  ' '  Shall  I  tell  you  about  it  ? " 


The  Man  from  the  Dead  305 

*  *  No ! "  exclaimed  the  other  decisively.  '  *  I  don 't 
want  to  hear  about  it. ; ' 

"Jefferson,  it  does  me  a  world  of  good  to  hear 
you  say  that.  If  you  don't  have  to  hear  it,  so  much 
the  better.  If  the  truth  is  not  necessary,  I  am  glad, 
for  the  truth  would  hurt,  somewhere. ' ' 

"Where  have  you  been?  "What  have  you  done? 
What  has  happened?"  asked  the  lieutenant,  dismiss 
ing  the  other  subject  finally,  with  a  look  of  affection 
at  the  sick  man. 

"You  '11  have  to  tell  me  something  that  has 
puzzled  my  head,  before  I  can  begin,"  returned 
Mortimer.  "I  have  been  trying  to  figure  out  how  I 
came  here.  Do  you  know?  Have  you  heard  them 
say?" 

"You  came  into  the  fort  like  a  ghost,  raging  with 
fever,"  explained  the  other.  "That  's  all  anybody 
knows  about  this  part  of  it." 

"I  thought  so.  The  last  thing  I  remember  is  that 
horrible  slaughter  of  Indians  up  there  on  the  Mis 
sissippi.  It  was  on  the  Mississippi,  wasn't  it?" 

Jefferson  Davis  nodded  his  head. 

"Wasn't  there  a  steamboat  there?"  pursued 
Mortimer,  ruminating.  "It  seems  to  me  that  I  can 
remember  a  steamboat.  It  fired  canister  among  the 
Indians.  Yes,  I  can  see  it  again  now ;  the  spurts  of 
water  scurrying  across  the  river's  face  in  among 
the  swimming  savages.  God !  It  was  awful.  There 
was  a  steamer,  was  there  not  ? ' ' 

"Yes,  the  Warrior  was  there." 


306          A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

' '  Who  commanded  ? ' ' 

''Captain  Throckmorton. " 

"I  should  not  like  to  be  Captain  Throckmorton 
when  the  time  comes  for  me  to  answer  to  my 
maker,"  said  Mortimer,  solemnly. 

Lieutenant  Davis  made  no  audible  comment,  be 
ing  in  the  service  of  the  Government. 

"And  tell  me  another  thing/'  resumed  Mortimer, 
looking  fearfully  and  anxiously  into  the  face  of  his 
friend.  '  *  The  sisters,  Rachel  and  Sylvia  Hall ;  were 
they  saved?" 

Understanding  broke  upon  the  intelligence  of 
Lieutenant  Davis.  * '  They  were  brought  in  by  an  In 
dian  and  are  in  the  hands  of  their  friends,"  he  re 
plied.  "They  are  safe  and  well;  but  I  don't  think 
both  of  them  are  entirely  happy, ' '  he  added,  his  eye 
twinkling. 

Mortimer  ignored  the  innuendo  with  some  ap 
parent  annoyance.  His  love  was  not  a  thing  to  be 
alluded  to  in  a  spirit  of  levity,  even  by  his  lifelong 
friend.  Of  all  the  world,  only  two  had  heard  him 
speak  of  it. 

"Where  are  they?"  he  asked,  with  an  attempt  at 
composed  indifference. 

"Somewhere  down  in  the  middle  part  of  the 
State,  I  think,"  Davis  made  answer,  regretting  his 
intrusiveness. 

"And  one  more  thing,  Jefferson,"  Mortimer  con 
tinued.  "I  had  a  horse  once.  Can  you  tell  me  any 
thing  about  that?"  His  hope  was  faint. 


The  Man  from  the  Dead  307 

"That  fine  roan  of  yours?" 

Mortimer's  eyes  lighted.  He  nodded  affirmative 
ly.  "Powhatan,"  he  said. 

"He  's  here.  He  followed  you  into  camp.  He  's 
fat  and  fresh — and  lonesome,  waiting  for  you. ' ' 

Deep  satisfaction  settled  on  the  countenance  of 
Mortimer.  He  sighed  with  relief  and  contentment, 
as  he  began  his  story. 

"Let  me  see,"  he  commenced.  "The  last  time 
you  saw  me  was  when  I  left  you  at  West  Point  on 
furlough,  to  visit  my  people  in  Virginia,  was  n't  it?" 

Jefferson  Davis  nodded  his  head. 

"That's  where  my  story  begins,"  Mortimer  re 
sumed.  "When  I  reached  home  I  found  trouble 
brewing.  Before  my  time  for  returning  was  up, 
things  came  to  such  a  pass  that  it  seemed  to  me  best 
for  all  involved  that  I  should  leave.  That  I  should 
disappear — exile  myself — immure  myself  in  a  wil 
derness.  All  I  took  with  me  was  my  horse  Powhatan, 
a  sum  of  money  that  was  my  own,  and  the  execra 
tions  of  my  people.  Only  a  firm  of  attorneys  in  Eich- 
mond  knew  where  I  was.  I  kept  them  informed  in 
my  travels. 

"We  wandered  rather  aimlessly,  Powhatan  and  I. 
I  don't  know  how  it  came  about;  perhaps  it  was  the 
lure  of  the  army ;  perhaps  it  was  fate ;  but  we  found 
ourselves  at  last  at  Jefferson  Barracks  I  didn't 
have  much  to  do  with  the  army  men,  because  it  was 
better  for  many  reasons  that  I  should  not  be  known, 
and  there  was  risk  of  meeting  old  acquaintances 


308          A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

among  the  officers  at  the  Barracks.  But  I  stayed 
because  I  liked  the  taste  in  the  air. 

"  Finally  I  came  to  know  a  man  named  Thomas 
Forsyth,  who  had  been  an  agent  of  the  Sacs  and 
Foxes,  and  was  then  living  at  Jefferson  Barracks. 
Through  him  I  became  interested  in  the  Indians,  and 
undertook  a  mission  or  two  of  slight  consequence. 
I  was  with  General  Gaines  when  he  drove  Black 
Hawk  across  the  Mississippi  a  year  ago  last  spring. 
I  knew  the  old  chief,  and  felt  sorry  for  him.  I  felt 
sorry  because  I  believed  that  he  was  an  honest  old 
fellow;  pig-headed  and  mistaken,  but  sincere  and 
without  any  viciousness." 

1  'He  is  a  capital  old  fellow!"  interjected  Jeffer 
son  Davis.  * '  He  is  a  sterling  old  man !  I  have  a  high 
regard  for  him. ' ' 

"Yes,  he  is,"  rejoined  Mortimer,  his  thoughts  on 
what  he  was  telling.  "When  I  returned  from  Sau- 
kenuk  last  year  I  met  a  man  in  central  Illinois  who 
impressed  me  as  a  great  and  wonderful  man.  I  met 
him  in  a  little  settlement  on  the  Sangamon  River, 
near  Vandalia,  on  my  way  to  the  State  capital  on 
business  for  Forsyth.  He  is  young,  little  more 
than  twenty-one  or  two,  but  there  is  something  about 
his  soul  that  makes  me  believe  he  will  be  a  giant 
among  men.  He  is  rough,  uncouth,  even  vulgar  in 
some  respects ;  and  yet  I  believe  that  there  springs 
in  the  bottom  of  his  heart  a  flow  of  inspired  wisdom, 
of  tenderness,  of  loving  sympathy  and  understand 
ing,  which  would  flood  the  world  if  events  should  tap 


The  Man  from  the  Dead  309 

it.  He  is  of  the  most  humble  and  insignificant  origin, 
a  product  of  the  destitute  frontier,  without  any  ad 
vantages,  with  only  such  education  as  he  has  been 
able  to  grub,  without  opportunity,  without  inspira 
tion  from  his  environment ;  and  yet  I  believe  that  if 
the  chance  comes,  he  will  cope  with  destiny  and  mold 
it.  He  held  me  from  the  first,  and  I  stayed  in  the 
little  village  to  be  near  him. ' ' 

"Who  is  this  man?"  asked  Jefferson  Davis,  deep 
ly  attentive. 

"  He  is  Abraham  Lincoln, ' '  returned  Mortimer. 

"Lincoln,"  repeated  Jefferson  Davis,  thought 
fully,  trying  to  recall.  "Was  he  not  with  the  militia 
at  Dixon's  ferry?" 

"He  was  captain  of  militia,"  Mortimer  told  him. 

"A  great,  tall,  lank  awkward  fellow  with  a  home 
ly  face  and  a  marvelous  smile  ? ' '  pursued  the  young 
lieutenant. 

"You  know  him?"  asked  Mortimer,  with  a  trace 
of  surprise  and  pleasure,  by  way  of  answer. 

"He  told  a  funny  story  at  a  council  one  day;  I 
remember  him. ' ' 

"Wasn't  the  story  shrewd?"  asked  Mortimer, 
as  one  who  takes  pride  in  the  deeds  of  his  friend. 
"Wasn't  it  pointed?  Didn't  it  mean  something? 
Did  n  't  it  clear  something  up  for  all  of  you,  generals 
and  all?" 

"Yes,  it  did,"  Jefferson  Davis  conceded;  "and 
it  was  funny,  too,  the  way  he  told  it.  But  we  all 


310  A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

thought  it  somewhat  out  of  place  in  a  militia  captain 
to  crack  jokes  at  a  council  of  war. ' ' 

*  *  My  dear  Jefferson, ' '  rejoined  Mortimer, 
pleased,  "did  it  occur  to  any  of  you  as  possible  that 
you  were  all  out  of  place  except  him  1 ' ' 

Jefferson  Davis  smiled  and  nodded  his  head,  and 
Mortimer  took  up  his  story  again. 

"There  was  another  reason  that  might  have  kept 
me  in  the  settlement,"  he  said,  looking  afar  off,  "if 
Lincoln  had  not  been  there."  It  was  in  his  heart 
to  tell  this  friend,  too,  about  his  love.  * '  Sylvia  Hall 
was  stopping  there  with  kinsfolk  of  hers ;  a  delicate 
flower  in  the  midst  of  a  desert;  a  fragrance  in  the 
wilderness — what  are  Gray's  words? 

' '  Full  many  a  gem  of  purest  ray  serene 

The  dark,  unf  athomed  caves  of  ocean  bear ; 
Full  many  a  flower  is  born  to  blush  unseen, 
And  waste  its  sweetness  on  the  desert  air. ' ' 

His  voice  fell ;  the  other  could  scarcely  hear. 
"How  such  a  soul  was  brought  from  the  stars  into 
this  wild  spot,  God  alone  can  answer.  Dainty,  beau 
tiful,  noble,  pure  in  heart,  with  lofty  instincts  and  an 
innate  delicacy  of  feeling  and  sentiment,  she  was  like 
a  wanderer  among  these  rough  and  barbarous  peo 
ple;  a  rare  and  exquisite  exotic  in  a  rugged  soil. 
She  is  even  different  from  her  own  family.  For  her 
only  I  should  have  stayed ;  with  them  both  my  life 
was  full  to  the  brim. 


The  Man  from  the  Dead  311 

"I  did  not  tell  her  of  my  affection.  There  was 
this  thing  in  Virginia  that  forbade  me.  In  the 
autumn  she  left  and  went  to  her  home  at  Indian 
Creek.  In  the  spring  following — this  spring — I  re 
ceived  papers  from  Henderson  and  Lee,  my  attor 
neys,  that  told  me  I  was  restored  in  the  sight  of  men, 
and  left  me  free  to  go  to  her  with  my  love. 

' l  Before  I  reached  her  home,  I  heard  of  the  dan 
ger  from  the  Hawk.  I  thought  I  might  be  able  to 
avert  it,  having  been  among  the  Indians,  and  having 
sympathy  for  them,  which  I  feared  few  other  white 
men  had.  So  I  stopped  only  to  warn  them,  and  went 
to  do  what  I  could  do.  I  failed,  and  then — I  cannot 
speak  of  it  yet ;  I  am  too  weak.  She  was  taken  cap 
tive,  and  I  tried  to  find  her.  I  had  some  hard,  rough 
journeys.  I  believe  the  hardships  and  distress  of 
mind  were  too  much  for  me.  I  don't  remember.  I 
am  tired,  Jefferson,  and  I  must  rest.  But  I  am  well 
now!  I  am  well  again!  God  bless  you,  Jefferson, 
this  has  been  a  glorious  day.  Come  back  to  me, 
won 't  you  ? ' ' 

He  held  out  his  thin  hand.  Jefferson  Davis 
pressed  it  for  a  moment  in  silence.  Eeleasing  it,  he 
turned  to  leave  the  room.  At  the  door  he  looked 
back. 

Mortimer,  with  a  smile  of  peace  upon  his  face, 
rested,  with  even  breath,  and  the  color  of  returning 
health  creeping  into  his  wasted  cheeks. 


CHAPTER  XIV 
DARKNESS 

THE  month  of  respite  that  Sylvia  Hall  had  given 
herself  before  becoming  the  bride  of  Isaac 
Frake  was  near  its  close.  Another  day  would  be 
the  last.  Frake,  who  had  been  at  his  place  on  the 
Kock  Eiver,  had  returned  to  New  Salem  two  days 
before,  resplendent  in  a  new  suit  of  butternut  and  a 
high,  stiff-crowned  hat  that  he  had  gone  all  the  way 
to  Chicago  to  purchase,  and  was  conducting  himself 
in  lofty  manner  at  Kutledge's  tavern.  In  obedience 
to  a  promise  made  to  Sylvia,  which  he  had  the  craft 
to  observe,  he  had  not  proclaimed  his  errand  in  spe 
cific  and  definite  terms ;  but  he  had  deeply  hinted  at 
it,  which  was  sufficient  in  a  village  with  the  news 
facilities  of  New  Salem. 

Sylvia  was  sitting  in  the  large  room  of  her  kins 
folk's  cabin,  which  served  as  kitchen,  parlor,  dining- 
room,  and  nursery  by  day,  and  bedroom  by  night. 
The  children  were  at  the  little  school  kept  by  Mentor 
Graham ;  the  father  and  mother  in  the  harvest  fields. 
Rachel,  married  to  William  Munson,  lived  in  a  home 
of  her  own.  Sylvia  was  alone  in  the  house. 

She  sat  by  the  open  door,  looking  out  upon  the 
cluster  of  houses  and  the  street  that  led  between 
them  to  the  mill  behind  the  bluff.  Her  hands  were 

312 


Darkness  313 

in  her  lap.  She  was  idle.  She  was  not  even  think 
ing.  A  perfect  calm  was  upon  her — a  final  stoicism. 
She  had  chosen,  and  was  adjusted  to  life. 

As  she  sat  there  she  saw  the  angular  form  of 
Abraham  Lincoln  ambling  up  the  street.  He  was 
keeper  of  a  store  now,  having  failed  in  his  election  to 
the  legislature.  Her  heart  felt  a  pang  for  him  as  he 
walked  slowly  along;  for  a  great  grief  was  close  be 
side  him.  Ann  Butledge  lay  at  her  home  desperately 
ill,  a  prey  to  the  morbid  sensitiveness  of  her  con 
science.  She  had  always  accused  herself  of  break 
ing  faith  with  the  man  who  had  betrayed  her  confi 
dence  and  deserted  her.  Sylvia  understood  the  story 
with  a  woman's  intuition,  and  pitied  the  man. 

As  he  came  near  he  raised  his  eyes  from  the 
ground  and  looked  at  her.  Without  removing  his 
gaze,  he  came  toward  the  open  door.  She  arose  and 
bade  him  enter.  He  did  so,  in  silence.  Pacing  up 
and  down  the  room  without  speaking,  he  confronted 
her  at  last,  fixing  his  sad  eyes  upon  hers.  "I  have 
good  excuse  for  coming  here  this  afternoon,"  he 
said. 

She  told  him  he  needed  none.  He  acknowledged 
her  graciousness  with  a  momentary  lowering  of  his 
eyes. 

"I  have  something  for  you,"  he  went  on. 

She  murmured  something  that  was  nothing  and 
waited  for  him  to  continue. 

"I  had  a  very  dear  friend  once,"  he  said,  soberly. 
"He  was  the  finest  man  I  ever  knew.  One  day  he 


314  A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

set  out  on  a  dangerous  journey.  Before  he  went  he 
gave  me  something  that  I  was  to  give  to  you  if  he 
never  came  back.  I  do  not  think  he  is  coming  back. ' ' 

His  voice  faltered.  She  stepped  toward  him  with 
a  quickening  heart.  There  was  that  in  his  manner 
and  tone  which  told  her  the  matter  was  portentous. 

"It  was  one  night  when  I  was  with  the  soldiers, 
in  camp  near  Dixon's.  It  was  just  after  you  had 
been  captured  by  the  Indians.  He  came  into  the 
camp  that  night;  he  had  just  come  from  Indian 
Creek  with  the  alarm.  He  had  gone  there  to  see  you, 
and  found  the  place  in  ruins.  Your  brother  had  told 
him  what  had  happened  to  you,  and  he  was  setting 
out  alone  to  find  you.  He  was  afraid  he  would  not 
come  back,  and  he  wanted  me  to  give  it  to  you  if  he 
didn't.  He  said  it  would  remove  a  shadow.  I  have 
waited  a  long  time.  I  am  afraid  he  is  not  coming. 
Here  it  is.  Do  you  know  who  it  is  from ! ' ' 

He  held  out  toward  her  a  large  envelope. 

"Yes,"  she  whispered,  trembling  throughout  heA- 
frame  as  she  reached  out  a  hand  and  took  it. 

"There  will  be  no  harm  if  you  read  it  and  he 
does  come, ' '  went  on  Lincoln,  looking  tenderly  down 
upon  her  bowed  head.  "He  was  going  to  have  you 
read  it  when  he  started  for  Indian  Creek  this  spring. 
He  wanted  you  to  read  it ;  only,  he  wanted  to  give  it 
to  you  himself.  But  I  am  afraid  he  is  not  coming, 
and  I  thought  you  ought  to  have  it  before  it  is  too 
late." 

There  was  a  significance  in  the  tone  of  his  closing 


Darkness  315 

sentence  that  caused  her  to  look  quickly  at  him.  He 
had  turned  toward  the  door  and  she  could  not  see 
his  face.  Before  she  could  command  herself  to  speak, 
before  she  could  be  sure  whether  she  wished  to  hear 
more  from  him,  he  was  gone. 

With  a  fluttering  heart,  she  hastened  to  the  light 
by  the  door,  clasping  the  envelope  eagerly  in  her 
hands,  like  hope  new  found.  Beaching  the  doorway, 
she  paused,  her  eyes  staring  wide  into  the  future  be 
fore  her.  The  letter  dropped  from  her  hands.  She 
leaned  against  the  door  post.  She  dared  not  read. 
She  dared  not  brave  the  past.  What  if  this  letter 
should  tell  her  that  what  she  believed  were  not  true  ? 
What  if  it  should  tell  her  that  it  was  true  ?  She  was 
contented  with  what  she  knew ;  why  should  she  know 
more!  She  had  won  the  fight  with  her  past;  why 
should  she  risk  the  struggle  again?  She  had  ad 
justed  herself  to  the  future ;  should  she  hazard  it  all 
on  a  bit  of  writing?  It  would  be  folly.  And  had  he 
any  right  to  wish  her  to  read  it  now?  Was  there  any 
shadow  that  could  be  removed?  He  was  dead  now; 
should  she  revive  her  buried  memories  ? 

Being  at  the  last  a  woman,  she  picked  it  up  and 
read. 

It  was  a  letter  to  Mortimer  Eandolph,  Esquire, 
formerly  of  Eoanoke,  Virginia,  indited  to  him  by  a 
firm  of  attorneys  in  Eichmond,  Virginia. 

"We  find  ourselves  at  liberty  to  inform  you,'*  it 
ran,  after  formal  salutation,  "and  take  great  pleas- 


316          A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

ure  in  so  doing,  that  the  recent  unfortunate  misap 
prehension  under  which  you  considered  it  advisable 
to  leave  your  home  and  family  connections  has  been 
removed.  Through  the  death  of  your  brother,  facts 
have  come  to  light  which  make  it  obvious  to  all  ac 
quainted  with  the  circumstances  that,  instead  of 
being  a  malefactor  deserving  the  execration  and  con 
tempt  of  your  family  and  friends,  under  which  you 
suffer,  you  are  in  truth  worthy  the  greatest  honor 
and  respect ;  that  you  have  made  a  courageous  and 
noble  sacrifice  of  yourself,  and  taken  the  blame  of 
another's  sin,  out  of  consideration  for  his  wife  and 
children,  who  would  have  been  keen  sufferers  had 
the  truth  been  known;  a  belief  which  you  will  per 
mit  us  to  say  we  have  entertained  throughout  the 
trying  episode.  In  brief,  your  brother,  dying,  has 
confessed  to  the  infamy  of  which  you  permitted 
yourself  to  be  suspected.  We  are  requested  by  your 
parents  to  communicate  with  you,  to  this  effect,  and 
to  forward  to  you  letters  from  them,  severally,  which 
we  herewith  beg  to  enclose.  Congratulating  you 
most  heartily, 

"We  beg  to  remain,  dear  sir, 

1  'Your  obedient  and  faithful  s'v'ts, 

* '  HENDERSON  &  LEE,  Att  'ys  at  Law. ' ' 

As  she  finished  she  sank  upon  the  chair  which  she 
had  occupied  before  Lincoln  came,  bringing  the  let 
ter.  In  the  tumult  of  her  feelings  she  was  forced  to 


Darkness  317 

wait  and  calm  herself  before  she  could  collect  her 
thoughts. 

She  looked  for  the  enclosures;  they  were  miss 
ing.  She  glanced  about  the  room  to  see  if  they  had 
slipped  from  the  envelope  to  the  floor.  She  could  not 
find  them.  She  opened  the  letter  again,  which,  in 
her  emotion,  she  had  folded  and  folded  into  a  thin, 
hard  strip,  and  read  it  a  second  time.  She  arose 
from  the  chair  and  walked  to  the  doorway,  op 
pressed,  seeking  light  and  air. 

Why  should  she  be  so  perturbed  by  the  communi 
cation?  Why  should  it  stir  the  mighty  powers  of  all 
that  lay  in  her  past  into  contention  against  her  re 
adjustment  to  life?  What  had  this,  whatever  it 
might  mean,  to  do  with  that  other  thing?  What 
could  they  of  Virginia  know  of  an  Indian  squaw  on 
the  banks  of  the  Mississippi  River!  How  could  a 
brother's  guilt  clear  him?  Why  should  it  disturb 
her  to  know  he  had  ever  made  such  a  sacrifice  ?  Why 
should  it  arouse  an  anguish  in  her  soul  before  which 
she  felt  herself  becoming  helpless?  It  had  no  bear 
ing.  It  must  not,  it  should  not,  unsettle  her ! 

The  sound  of  a  horse's  hoofs  crunching  in  the 
sand  of  the  roadway ;  a  low  whinny ;  the  glad  cry  of 
a  voice;  someone  was  moving  swiftly  toward  her! 
She  was  half  aware  of  it  all  through  her  obsession. 
She  recalled  her  eyes. 

They  rested  upon  the  face  of  Mortimer  Randolph, 
wan  and  worn,  beautiful  in  the  joy  of  seeing  her. 


318          A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

"Sylvia!  Sylvia!"  he  murmured,  coming  close, 
with  eager  haste. 

She  shrank  from  him.  Her  countenance  was 
blank.  He  stopped,  troubled  and  at  a  loss. 

'  *  Sylvia ! "  he  said. 

She  turned  from  him  and  entered  the  house,  mak 
ing  no  response.  He  followed  slowly,  uncertainly. 
He  passed  to  her  side.  He  touched  her  hand — the 
hand  that  held  the  opened  letter.  She  withdrew  it 
from  his  touch;  she  shrugged  her  shoulder  away 
from  him. 

" Don't  touch  me — yet,"  she  said,  in  hollow  voice, 
averting  her  face,  and  extending  the  hand  with  the 
letter  in  it  as  though  she  would  have  held  him  off 
with  it. 

Instantly  he  became  all  repose  and  self-posses 
sion.  "Miss  Hall,  I  humbly  crave  your  pardon,"  he 
said,  with  calmness  and  formality.  It  was  not  re 
buke,  it  was  not  offended  dignity,  it  was  not  wounded 
pride ;  it  was  only  the  delicate  consideration  of  an 
instinctive  gentleman  for  a  woman's  wish  that 
molded  the  form  of  his  speech  and  gave  it  its  tone. 
He  believed  that  she  had  changed  in  her  affection ; 
he  would  not  question  her  privilege.  '  *  I  ask  you  to 
forgive  my  effrontery.  It  was  not  my  intention  to 
be  rude.  Perhaps  you  will  be  able  to  condone  my 
blunder ;  perhaps  you  will  be  able  to  understand  how 
I  fell  into  it.  I — in  the  circumstances,  I  was  led  to 
expect  another  form  of  greeting  from  you.  I  again 
ask  your  indulgence  for  my  unwitting  mistake." 


Darkness  319 

The  tone  of  his  voice  pierced  her  soul;  the  sin 
cerity  and  generosity  of  his  words  rent  her.  Her 
body  was  wrenched  by  her  unhappiness.  He  saw, 
and  knew  he  had  caused  her  pain. 

* '  I  beg  you  will  not  misunderstand  me, ' '  he  has 
tened  to  say,  still  calm,  and  misunderstanding  her 
most  completely.  "I  had  no  intention  of  insinuating 
that  your  welcome  should  have  been  different.  I 
hope  you  do  not  think  that.  It  would  be  most  un 
warrantable  presumption  in  me  to  question  your  at 
titude  toward  me.  That  I  have  no  cause  for  doing 
and  should  have  no  right  to  do  if  I  thought  there 
were  cause.  There  was  nothing  in  our  former  inter 
course  that  would  give  me  the  privilege  of  asking 
of  you  the  consideration  I  did  myself  the  honor 
to  expect  on  a  renewal  of  our  acquaintance.  If 
there  had  been,  I  should  not  now  have  the  right  to 
press  you  for  a  renewal  of  kindness,  after  the  lapse 
of  time  and  events  which  have  intervened  since  our 
parting.  I  am  grieved  to  have  given  you  pain.  I  beg 
you  will  not  permit  yourself  to  believe  either  that 
you  owe  me  any  regard  because  of  our  former  ac 
quaintance,  or  that  I  feel  that  you  do.  I  am  indebted 
to  you  for  the  great  pleasure  of  such  companionship 
as  you  accorded  me.  I  can  only  thank  you,  and  beg 
that  you  will  permit  me  to  look  back  upon  my  asso 
ciation  with  you  with  pleasure  and  gratitude. '  '• 

He  spoke  slowly,  with  a  feeling  in  his  voice  that 
he  could  not  hide,  though  he  made  an  effort  to  do 
so.  He  labored  to  make  her  understand  that  he  held 


320          A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

her  free  to  change  in  her  regard  for  him,  without 
implying  what  the  regard  had  been.  His  eyes  were 
on  the  floor  as  he  spoke.  He  did  not  see  that  she 
trembled  with  stifled  sobs  as  she  heard  his  chival 
rous,  magnanimous  words. 

"No,  no,  it  is  not  that,"  she  said,  with  averted 
face,  still  holding  the  letter  extended  toward  him. 
"This  letter,"  she  added,  fluttering  it  in  her  trem 
bling  hand.  "Is  there  anything  more  than  this 
letter?" 

For  the  first  time  he  observed  what  it  was,  hav 
ing  refrained  from  looking  at  it  before,  believing 
it  private.  He  was  puzzled  to  see  her  with  it. 

"Where  did  you  get  it  I"  he  asked,  nonplussed. 
"When  did  you  get  it?" 

"He  gave  it  to  me,  today?" 

"Abraham  Lincoln?" 

"Yes." 

*  *  Did  he  know  I  was  coming  ? ' ' 

"He  said  you  were  not  coming." 

"There  were  enclosures,"  said  Mortimer,  after  a 
pause,  beginning  to  think  that  he  saw  her  meaning. 
"I  have  lost  them,  I  am  afraid.  I  have  been  ill,  and 
they  were  mislaid.  I  can  tell  you  what  they  said. ' ' 

"No,  no,"  she  repeated,  in  a  heavy  voice.  "It  is 
not  that.  Is  there  nothing  else  you  have  to  tell  me  ? " 

She  was  losing  the  fight !  She  knew  it,  and  was 
glad !  He  could  tell  her  all  the  horrible  truth  now, 
and  she  would  be  rejoiced  to  yield  the  fight,  to  sur 
render  herself  to  him.  Only,  he  must  tell  her.  She 


Darkness  321 

dared  not  look  at  him  as  she  awaited  his  reply.  She 
waited  long,  for  he  was  lost  in  an  effort  to  fathom 
her  meaning.  To  her  heart,  each  moment  that  she 
waited  was  a  lifetime. 

"There  is  nothing  I  can  bring  to  mind  to  which 
you  might  be  referring"  he  said,  at  length,  slowly. 
"There  seems  to  be  some  strange  and  subtle  mis 
understanding  between  us,  Miss  Hall,"  he  added, 
still  in  his  formal  tone.  *  *  Perhaps  we  should  be  able 
to  remove  it  by  mutual  explanation.  Can  you  tell 
me  more  definitely  what  you  mean?  Are  you  will 
ing  to?" 

She  could  not  speak  for  a  moment.  "Is  there 
nothing  about  an  Indian?"  she  asked,  slowly,  with 
a  struggle  between  each  succeeding  word. 

"I  have  had  experiences  with  the  Indians  re 
cently,  ' '  he  replied,  perplexed.  ' '  If  you  will  be  more 
definite?" 

' '  About  an  Indian  woman  ? ' '  with  an  effort  which 
cost  heavily. 

Mortimer  was  more  confused  than  he  had  been. 
"I  do  not  know  what  you  mean,  Miss  Hall,"  he  said. 
* '  Can  you  not  help  me  a  little  further  ? ' ' 

"No,  no,  no,  no,"  she  cried,  in  a  voice  that  was 
between  a  moan  and  a  whisper.  "I  can  not!  Oh,  he 
will  not  tell  me !  He  will  not  tell  me !" 

She  placed  her  hands  before  her  face,  and  walked 
slowly  toward  the  door,  weeping.  Mortimer  fol 
lowed  her  with  his  eyes,  amazed. 

As  he  watched  her,  he  saw  the  figure  of  Isaac 


322          A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

Frake  in  the  doorway.  Sylvia  saw  it  at  the  same 
moment  through  her  tears.  She  recoiled  and  stood 
in  the  center  of  the  room,  like  a  statue. 

"Well,  what's  going  on?"  demanded  Frake,  an 
grily;  for  he  feared  this  man  as  one  fears  another 
to  whom  he  has  done  deadly  injury;  and  fear  is 
anger  and  hatred. 

"What  you  doing  to  this  woman!  What  do  you 
mean  by  coming  here  and  taking  advantage  of  a 
defenseless  woman ?  You  needn  't  think  you  can  play 
any  of  your  tricks  here ! ' ' 

There  was  silence.  Mortimer  overlooked  the  bit 
ter,  burning  insult  for  the  time.  His  eyes  were  fixed 
on  Sylvia.  He  watched  her  closely,  trying  to  under 
stand. 

"What  you  doing  here?"  demanded  Frake  again, 
with  a  show  of  the  heroic.  Seeing  Randolph  with 
Sylvia,  and  seeing  Sylvia  in  distress,  he  thought  the 
man  was  seeking  a  reconciliation,  which  he  knew 
could  be  effected,  given  the  opportunity.  From  this 
false  premise,  he  concluded,  shrewdly  enough,  that 
his  greatest  security  lay  in  vigorously  braving  the 
other  down,  depending  for  his  advantage  on  Sylvia's 
conviction  that  Randolph  was  a  guilty  man. 

Mortimer,  wholly  ignoring  the  other's  bluster, 
spoke  quietly  to  Sylvia. 

"Is  it  your  wish  that  I  should  answer  this  man?" 
he  asked,  deferentially. 

"He  has  the  right  to  ask  it,"  returned  Sylvia, 
meeting  his  gaze  with  sublime  courage. 


Darkness  323 

1  'Mr.  Frake,"  said  Mortimer  to  him,  advancing 
and  extending  his  right  hand ;  there  was  no  sign  in 
his  face  of  the  surprise,  the  dismay,  the  grief  that 
was  in  his  heart,  "I  offer  you  an  apology.  In  regard 
to  my  visit  to  Miss  Hall,  I  have  to  say  that  I  came 
here  this  afternoon  after  a  long  absence  with  the 
desire  of  renewing  an  acquaintance  with  her  which 
I  once  found  enjoyable.  I  found  her  averse  to  a 
resumption  of  our  former  friendship,  which  she  had 
given  me  no  reason  to  suppose  she  would  care  to 
revive.  I  protest  to  you,  as  one  entitled  to  my  confi 
dence  in  the  matter,  that  I  have  no  knowledge  of  the 
cause  of  her  perturbation,  and  do  not  feel  myself  at 
liberty  to  conjecture. ' ' 

Frake  considered  it  best  to  take  the  hand  ex 
tended  to  him,  and  to  express  briefly  his  satisfaction 
in  the  explanation  offered  by  Mortimer.  This  done, 
the  Virginian  dismissed  the  entire  subject  with  a 
word,  and  turned  toward  Sylvia.  She  was  pale  and 
slightly  trembling;  but  for  that  her  outward  calm 
was  complete. 

"Miss  Hall,  permit  me  to  say  good  bye,  and  to 
express  again  my  regret  in  having  annoyed  you,"  he 
said,  respectfully,  bowing  to  her  in  strict  formality. 
Again  it  was  not  to  rebuke  her,  but  to  relieve  her,  if 
necessary,  from  any  embarrassment  that  her  mem 
ories  might  have  caused  her.  It  was  to  erase  all  that 
had  been  between  them ;  for  such  seemed  to  be  her 
wish. 

"Good  bye,  Mr.  Randolph,"  she  said,  evenly; 
and  he  was  gone  from  the  room. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 
LIGHT 

A  BEAHAM  LINCOLN  lay  on  his  back  in  the 
*~V  grass  at  the  foot  of  an  oak  that  grew  in  front 
of  his  store,  one  of  his  grotesque  feet  resting  high  on 
the  trunk  of  a  tree.  A  book  leaned  against  his  up 
raised  knees — a  volume  of  Blackstone.  He  was  en 
deavoring  to  read  it,  but  was  making  little  progress. 
It  was  not  often  that  he  failed  to  concentrate  his 
attention  upon  his  reading  when  he  was  able  to  as 
sume  the  position  which  he  now  enjoyed.  It  was  his 
favorite  attitude.  To-day  it  availed  him  nothing. 
He  had  shuffled  his  feet  higher  and  higher  along  the 
bole  of  the  tree  to  the  extreme  length  of  his  long 
legs,  to  no  purpose.  He  could  not  keep  his  mind  on 
the  pages  before  him. 

Isaac  Frake  was  the  cause  of  his  mental  disturb 
ance.  He  was  worried  and  annoyed  because  Isaac 
Frake  had  returned  to  New  Salem,  and  because  there 
appeared  to  be  foundation  for  the  rumor  that  Isaac 
Frake  was  about  to  take  Sylvia  Hall  to  wife.  He 
knew  Isaac  Frake  from  top  to  bottom.  He  knew 
Sylvia  Hall  as  well  as  it  is  given  man  to  know 
woman.  He  knew  Mortimer  Eandolph  with  the  in 
forming  love  of  one  strong  man  for  another.  He 
knew  the  tender  and  abiding  affection  that  Randolph 

324 


Light  325 

had  borne  for  Sylvia.  Mortimer  had  told  him  of  it 
upon  occasions,  most  memorably  upon  the  eve  of  his 
departure  for  Indian  Creek  in  April,  after  the  day 
he  had  received  a  certain  important  and  interesting 
communication  from  his  attorneys  in  Richmond, 
Virginia. 

Knowing  these  things,  he  was  disturbed  and  made 
anxious  by  the  prospective  marriage  of  Frake  and 
Sylvia.  He  was  positive  that  Sylvia  could  not  know 
what  manner  of  man  Frake  was,  or  how  he  had  con 
cerned  himself  in  her  affairs  and  the  affairs  of  her 
lover.  Making  every  charitable  allowance  for  the 
circumstance  that  Sylvia  was  a  woman,  he  still  could 
not  credit  that  she  would  marry  this  man  if  she  had 
even  a  suspicion  of  the  truth  about  him. 

From  which,  being  logical,  he  deduced  that  there 
was  a  bitter  misunderstanding  somewhere,  and  that 
a  great  and  irreparable  blunder  would  be  made  if 
something  or  someone  did  not  prevent  it.  So  far  he 
could  go,  and  no  further,  in  Blackstone  or  out ;  for 
Mortimer  was  among  the  dead  or  missing.  He  had 
not  been  seen  or  reported  since  the  day  of  the  fight 
at  Bad  Axe,  when  he  had  been  observed  passing  over 
the  crest  of  a  hill  leading  his  horse  and  raging  with 
fever,  or — worse.  If  Mortimer  were  here,  or  known 
to  be  alive,  someting  might  be  effected.  He  himself 
was  in  possession  of  certain  facts  which  would  go  far 
toward  bringing  about  a  better  state  of  affairs.  But 
without  Mortimer  he  could  not  see  the  way. 

Lying  on  his  back  with  his  feet  high  on  the  trunk 


326          A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

of  the  oak,  Abraham  Lincoln  felt  that  he  had  much 
to  blame  himself  with,  as  he  thought  of  Mortimer. 
He  believe  that  he  had  blundered,  largely  and  fa 
tally.  When  he  overheard  the  conversation  between 
Frake  and  Half  Ear  in  the  creek  bed  at  Kellogg 's 
Grove  he  had  not  interfered  then  in  the  designs  and 
machinations  of  the  man  for  reasons  that  he  thought 
good.  He  argued  that  Mortimer,  roaming  among  the 
Indians,  would  be  in  no  graver  danger  from  Half 
Ear,  under  instructions  from  Frake,  than  he  already 
was  exposed  to.  Half  Ear,  as  well  as  any  other 
Sauk,  would  probably  kill  him  anyway  if  the  chance 
offered. 

As  far  as  the  plan  involved  the  release  of  the 
Hall  sisters,  he  approved  of  it.  If  Half  Ear  could 
succeed  in  abducting  them  from  Black  Hawk's  band 
they  would  at  least  obtain  their  freedom,  and  Sylvia 
could  subsequently  be  rescued  from  Frake,  either 
when  Frake  met  the  Indian  at  Kellogg 's  Grove  or 
when  he  brought  the  girls  back  to  civilization.  In 
deed,  he  had  so  far  followed  out  a  counterplot  in 
that  direction  as  to  send  Slicky  Bill  Green,  his  faith 
ful  follower,  upon  a  secret  mission  to  Kellogg 's 
Grove  as  soon  as  he  himself  had  returned  from  his 
discharge  at  Watertown.  But  Slicky  Bill  had  failed 
him  lamentably,  just  as  others  were  to  fail  him  later 
in  life  when  matters  of  greater  moment  depended. 

Even  now,  in  the  midst  of  the  miscarriage  of  his 
counterplot,  his  conviction  that  he  had  erred  arose 
rather  from  his  failure  to  effect  his  purpose  than 


Light  327 

from  any  flaw  he  could  find  in  his  schemes  by  process 
of  logic.  Nevertheless,  the  conviction  was  strong 
and  depressing,  and  whether  the  fault  were  his  or 
not,  the  fact  existed  that  Sylvia  was  about  to  be  pre 
cipitated  into  a  tragic  disaster,  and  Mortimer  was 
out  of  reach,  to  say  the  least. 

The  state  of  affairs  had  engaged  his  agitated  at 
tention  for  some  days ;  ever  since  Frake  's  return,  in 
fact.  A  delicacy  about  interfering  in  another's  con 
cerns,  increased  by  the  element  of  uncertainty  aris 
ing  from  the  circumstance  that  that  other  was  a 
woman,  had  deterred  him  from  any  open  activities 
until  this  day.  This  very  afternoon  his  sense  of  obli 
gation  to  his  friend  and  of  duty  toward  the  young 
woman  had  impelled  him  to  take  one  step.  He  had 
gone  to  Sylvia  with  the  communication  that  Morti 
mer  had  received  from  his  Richmond  attorneys  and 
which  he  had  entrusted  to  him  for  conditional  deliv 
ery  to  Sylvia  when  he  set  out  on  his  hazardous 
search  for  her.  He  had  explained  to  her  the  circum 
stances  of  his  having  it.  In  fact,  he  had  not  returned 
from  his  errand  ten  minutes  before,  to  resume  his 
Blackstone  and  his  recumbent  attitude. 

But  his  thoughts  persistently  wandered  from 
Blackstone  to  Mortimer  and  Sylvia.  The  more  he 
thought  of  the  matter,  the  more  convinced  he  was 
that  the  cloud  that  the  attorneys '  communication  was 
intended  to  clear  away  was  not  the  only  darkness 
that  existed  between  Mortimer  and  Sylvia;  that  it 
would  not  of  itself  be  sufficient  to  induce  her  to  repu- 


328          A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

diate  Mortimer  and  marry  this  other  man.  He  did 
not  know  anything  about  the  elaborate  and  lucky 
devices  by  which  Frake  had  prevailed  upon  her  to 
think  that  Mortimer  already  had  an  Indian  wife 
when  he  fell  in  love  with  her,  but  he  was  convinced 
that  something  more  than  a  shadow  had  destroyed 
her  faith  in  his  friend,  and  that  the  letter  alone 
would  not  suffice  in  setting  matters  to  rights. 

Coming  to  this  conclusion,  he  took  his  feet  down 
from  their  elevated  resting  place  and  stood  upright 
upon  them,  resolved  to  return  to  her  and  utterly 
blast  Frake  before  her  eyes,  if  nothing  more  were 
to  be  effected  by  it  than  her  own  salvation.  Turning 
in  the  direction  of  the  cabin  where  she  lived,  which 
was  within  sight  of  his  tree,  and  casting  his  glance 
thither,  his  heart  jumped. 

Standing  before  the  cabin  he  saw  a  horse;  a 
beautiful  roan  thoroughbred  which  he  could  not  pos 
sibly  mistake.  As  he  gazed  at  the  animal  in  stupe 
faction,  in  which  was  mingled  a  trace  of  supersti 
tious  alarm,  he  saw  Isaac  Frake  approach  the  door 
of  the  cabin  and  enter.  Without  further  delay  he 
clapped  his  book  together,  threw  it  without  regard 
into  the  open  door  of  his  store,  and  plodded  up  the 
street,  thankful  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  for  the 
length  of  his  legs. 

As  he  came  near  he  heard  a  voice  within,  a  low, 
modulated  voice.  It  was  the  sweetest  sound  he  had 
ever  heard,  and  gave  him  the  greatest  throb  of  joy 
he  had  ever  known,  for  it  was  the  voice  of  Mortimer 


Light  329 

Randolph.  He  put  his  legs  to  a  greater  strain,  and 
ran  forward,  arriving  at  the  door  just  in  time  to  fold 
Mortimer  himself  in  his  great  arms,  as  he  was  com 
ing  forth,  so  unutterably  sad  and  woebegone  that  he 
did  not  see  his  friend  until  he  felt  his  embrace. 
Without  stopping  for  other  greeting  than  the  acci 
dental  hug,  Lincoln  bolted  through  the  door,  drag 
ging  Mortimer  with  him,  struggling  as  much  as  a 
gentleman  from  Virginia  could  with  decorum  on 
being  brought  into  the  presence  of  a  lady. 

Frake,  with  his  back  to  the  door,  was  standing 
before  Sylvia,  talking  to  her  in  rough  expostulation, 
evidently  demanding  to  see  the  letter  that  she  still 
held  in  her  hand.  She  gave  him  no  response,  either 
of  look  or  word,  seeming  utterly  dazed  and  lost. 

''Howdy,  Miss  Hall,"  said  Lincoln,  scarcely  able 
to  repress  jocosity  in  his  voice,  so  great  was  his 
exultant  delight  in  finding  matters  as  they  were. 
"Howdy,  Frake!" 

Sylvia  stared  blankly  at  him,  and  at  Randolph. 
Frake  turned  abruptly  and  fell  into  a  state  of  bewil 
dered  consternation  at  sight  of  the  two.  Randolph, 
not  yet  released  by  his  friend,  stood  with  his  hat  in 
his  hand  and  his  head  bowed,  like  a  recalcitrant 
schoolboy. 

"Miss  Hall,"  said  Lincoln,  gazing  gloriously 
around,"!  suppose  the  first  thing  I  ought  to  do  would 
be  to  apologize  for  coming  here  like  this,  but  I'm  not 
going  to  do  it.  If  I'm  right  I  won't  need  to  apolo 
gize,  and  if  I'm  wrong  I'll  have  a  whole  lot  more  to 


330          A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

apologize  for  than  just  coming  here,  so  I'm  not  going 
to  waste  time  doing  it  now. ' ' 

Sylvia  Hall,  feeling  the  imminence  of  a  great 
event  in  her  life,  made  no  answer,  unless  the  recalling 
of  her  attention  from  abstraction  and  the  fixing  of  it 
upon  Lincoln  with  an  intentness  that  he  could  almost 
physically  feel  might  be  termed  a  response.  Frake 
remained  staring,  with  a  sullen  gleam  of  anger  and 
fear  coming  into  his  eyes.  Mortimer  continued  as 
he  was,  fairly  in  the  hands  of  fate. 

"I  may  be  right  and  I  may  be  wrong,"  Lincoln 
went  on,  his  voice  ringing  with  gladness  and  enthu 
siasm.  "I'm  willing  to  take  the  consequences,  and 
the  responsibility  is  all  mine.  I'll  answer  for  it.  I 
might  as  well  be  brief.  The  truth  is  somewhere 
about  here,  and  we  can  never  get  to  the  truth  too 
soon ;  sometimes  not  soon  enough. ' ' 

Mortimer  ventured  to  raise  his  eyes  toward  his 
friend.  His  thoughts  were  all  afloat.  He  could  not 
wait  to  hear  what  Lincoln  had  to  say.  He  could  not 
listen  to  it  with  his  eyes  on  the  floor.  Sylvia  still 
looked  at  Lincoln.  Frake,  overwhelmed  by  the  sud 
denness  and  surprise  of  Lincoln's  interruption  and 
his  own  fears,  looked  from  one  to  another  furtively. 

' '  Miss  Hall,  something  seems  to  be  wrong  here, ' ' 
Lincoln  continued,  looking  into  her  eyes  with  a  sym 
pathy  and  sincerity  that  made  her  heart  flutter 
again,  and  build  up  hopes.  "I  am  not  a  great  be 
liever  in  meddling  with  others  folks'  affairs  unless 
I  am  asked,  but  something  seems  to  have  gone  so 


Light  331 

far  wrong  here  that  I  am  not  going  to  wait  to  be 
asked. ' ' 

The  words  were  prophetic  of  the  events  that  were 
to  make  him  a  great  character  of  history,  belonging 
to  the  centuries. 

"My  excuse  is  my  love  for  this  man  and  my  re 
gard  for  you,"  he  said,  jerking  his  head  toward  Mor 
timer  and  Sylvia  in  turn.  "I'd  risk  making  a  big 
mistake  for  either.  That  letter  doesn't  seem  to  have 
done  much  good ; ' ' — he  inclined  his  eyes  toward  it — 
"it  doesn't  seem  to  be  all  that's  needed  to  set  things 
right.  Frake  "  —  he  turned  suddenly  — '  *  Frake,  I 
want  to  ask  you  a  few  questions. ' ' 

He  paused  longer  than  he  had  at  any  time  in 
his  talk,  with  his  eyes  fastened  upon  the  man.  Frake 
met  his  gaze  with  sullen  defiance. 

"Did  you  ever  happen  to  know  a  miserable  little 
Indian  by  the  name  of  Half  Ear?"  Lincoln  asked, 
quietly. 

"Now  see  here,  Lincoln,"  growled  Frake,  his  face 
growing  intensely  red  and  ghastly  white  in  swift  suc 
cession,  "none  of  your  blamed  jokes,  now!  I  won't 
put  up  with  'em." 

Sylvia,  in  quivering  expectancy,  turned  her  eyes 
upon  the  face  of  Frake,  and  saw  there  much  more 
than  the  answer  he  refused  to  make.  Mortimer 
glanced  at  him  for  a  moment,  returning  his  gaze  to 
Lincoln.  Lincoln,  releasing  him  and  gesticulating 
with  his  long  arms  as  he  proceeded,  spoke  again. 
Mortimer  might  have  left  now,  but  he  did  not.  He 


332  A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

was  held  by  something  stronger  than  the  strong  arm 
of  his  friend.  He  was  held  by  the  expression  on 
Sylvia's  face,  which  he  saw  in  a  glance  as  his  eyes 
returned  to  Lincoln. 

* '  You  make  it  pretty  clear  that  you  do  know  him, 
Frake,"  the  tall,  thin  man  resumed.  "Now,  Frake, 
do  you  remember  seeing  this  Indian  in  the  woods  at 
Kellogg 's  grove  that  afternoon  when  we  found  the 
five  dead  bodies?"  Frake  was  speechless  with  sur 
prise  and  dismay.  "And  do  you  remember  meeting 
him  in  the  bed  of  a  dry  creek  that  same  evening?" 
Frake  only  stared  at  him.  The  eyes  of  Mortimer  and 
Sylvia,  fixed  upon  him,  seared  into  his  soul. 

"Do  you  happen  to  recall  what  you  said  to  him 
that  night?"  continued  Lincoln,  not  deeming  it  nec 
essary  that  Frake  should  make  verbal  acknowledg 
ment  of  the  truth  of  the  incidents  which  his  ques 
tions  suggested  as  having  happened. 

"You  seem  to  know  more  about  it  than  I  do," 
muttered  Frake,  hoarsely,  with  an  abortive  attempt 
at  bravado. 

'  *  I  reckon  I  know  more  about  it  than  you  think  I 
do,"  returned  Lincoln,  "because  I  was  lying  in  the 
bushes  right  behind  you  while  you  talked  with  him. ' ' 
Frake  gasped.  The  attention  of  Sylvia  became  more 
intensely  fixed,  if  that  were  possible.  Mortimer 
began  to  see  the  first  faint  glimmerings  of  a  light 
breaking  ahead. 

"I  am  going  to  tell  these  people  what  passed 
there,  since  you  won't  do  it,"  said  Lincoln,  earnestly. 


Light  333 

"I  think  it  would  interest  and  enlighten  them.  If  I 
go  wrong,  you  will  correct  my  mistakes.  First,  you 
gave  the  Indian  your  bottle  of  whiskey — there  wasn't 
much  left,  I  reckon.  He  seemed  to  expect  whiskey 
from  you.  You  told  Half  Ear  that  he  was  no  good 
because  he  let  that  red-headed  paleface  get  away 
from  him  on  the  morning  before  the  massacre 
at  Indian  Creek  —  the  morning  when  Mortimer 
Randolph  rode  .with  express  to  Ottawa  —  didn't 
you,  Frake?  And  you  told  him  that  he  was  a 
fool  to  let  Black  Hawk  get  hold  of  the  Hall  girls 
after  he  and  Mike  Girty  had  stolen  them  for  you 
from  Indian  Creek,  didn't  you,  Frake?  You  told 
him  that  if  he  had  turned  them  over  to  you  instead 
he  would  have  a  barrel  of  whiskey  for  his  pains, 
didn't  you?  And  you  renewed  the  offer  of  a  barrel 
of  whiskey  if  he  would  kidnap  them  from  the  Indian 
chief  who  held  them  captive  and  bring  them  to  that 
same  spot  where  you  sat.  Am  I  wrong?  You  also 
said  that  he  could  have  half  of  the  reward  of  a  thou 
sand  dollars  offered  for  their  return,  which  would 
keep  him  in  whiskey  until  it  rotted  his  pesky  hide.  I 
hope  you  gave  him  his  share,  Frake.  And  you  gave 
him  promise  of  still  further  reward.  You  told  him 
that  if  he  got  a  certain  red  scalp  and  brought  it  to 
you,  he  could  have  another  half  barrel  of  whiskey. 
Frake,  your  sense  of  color  or  your  choice  of  adjec 
tives  is  not  very  good.  The  scalp  you  meant  is  not 
red ;  it  is  more  nearly  the  color  of  bronze ! ' ' 

He  spoke  without  passion  or  malice.    His  voice 


334          A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

rose  as  he  went  on,  but  the  increase  in  pitch  was 
more  from  joy  and  gladness  rather  than  from  other 
excitement ;  for  the  grim  jest  he  played  was  dear  to 
his  heart.  His  disclosures  poured  so  rapidly  from 
his  lips,  their  significance  and  intimate  bearing  upon 
those  who  listened  were  so  stupendous  and  of  such 
moment  to  all  of  them,  that  there  was  not  a  sound  or 
the  movement  of  a  muscle  in  the  room  as  he  uttered 
them.  As  he  concluded  with  his  reference  to  the 
scalp  of  red  hair,  he  turned  his  eyes  critically  toward 
Mortimer  and  looked  quizzically  at  his  head. 

"What  the  hell  were  you  doing  there?"  cried 
Frake,  utterly  routed  and  confounded.  Lincoln 
smiled  at  his  unwitting  confession  to  the  truth  of 
all  he  had  just  said. 

"I  didn't  quite  know  why  I  was  there  that 
night, ' '  replied  Lincoln,  with  a  drawl,  ' '  but  I  am  be 
ginning  to  find  out  now.  I  merely  thought  at  the 
tune  that  you  would  bear  watching.  I  didn't  inter 
fere  with  you  then,  Frake,  because  I  thought  your 
scheme  might  be  a  good  way  to  free  the  Hall  girls. 
And  it  was.  It  was.  So  far  it  worked  out  right.  We 
are  all  grateful  to  you  for  that,  Frake." 

"I  saved  their  lives,"  blurted  Frake,  seeing  a 
foop-hole. 

"You  cannot  complain  of  ingratitude  on  that 
score,  Frake,"  rejoined  Lincoln,  shaking  his  head 
and  his  long  forefinger  at  him,  "because,  unless  I 
am  mistaken,  Sylvia  Hall  is  going  to  marry  you  for 
that."  He  was  guilty  of  the  indelicacy  wittingly, 


Light  335 

with  specific  intention  and  purpose.  He  said  it  be 
cause  the  moment  was  psychological. 

A  sob  that  was  half  a  moan  escaped  from  Sylvia. 
She  turned  away  her  head  and  covered  her  face  with 
one  arm,  clinging  with  the  other  hand  to  the  rough 
wall  of  the  cabin,  wavering,  unsteady.  The  soft  look 
of  love  in  Mortimer's  eyes,  fastened  upon  her,  be 
came  more  tender,  more  compassionate,  more  yearn 
ing.  Involuntarily  he  made  a  move  to  go  to  her,  but 
checked  himself.  The  time  was  not  yet  come.  Frake, 
confounded,  cast  his  gaze  upon  the  puncheon  floor. 

"There's  one  thing  more  I  want  to  ask  you  about, 
Frake,  before  I  go,"  Lincoln  began  again.  "I  don't 
know  that  it  applies  at  all.  If  it  does,  I  don't  see  the 
connection,  but  it  has  to  do  with  facts  concerning 
yourself,  and  facts  about  you  should  not  be  over 
looked  at  present.  Do  you  know  anything  about  an 
Indian  woman  named  Raven  Hair!" 

Eaven  Hair!  At  the  sound  of  the  name  Sylvia 
reeled  against  the  wall.  She  closed  her  eyes  behind 
the  arm  that  hid  them.  She  dared  not  meet  the  look 
in  any  face.  Mortimer,  seeing  its  effect  upon  her, 
wondered,  seeking  vainly  in  his  memory  for  explana 
tion  of  it,  believing  in  his  heart  that  here  lay  the 
solution  of  the  enigma. 

"Ask  him!"  snarled  Frake,  jerking  his  thumb 
toward  Mortimer,  intending  to  sneer  and  leer. 

Ask  him!  Ask  him!  Mortimer,  beginning  to 
understand,  looked  at  Sylvia.  She  shuddered  against 
the  rough  logs  of  the  wall.  The  light  began  to  break 


336          A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

upon  him.  The  clouds  rifted  and  scattered.  The 
time  was  coming  swiftly. 

"I  might  ask  him,"  returned  Lincoln,  calmly. 
"He  might  know  something  about  her.  But  you 
probably  know  more,  because  she  was  your  wife. ' ' 

Sylvia,  leaning  against  the  rough  wall,  uttered  a 
low  cry.  Mortimer  heard,  and  the  light  was  full 
upon  him.  The  time  was  close  at  hand. 

'  *  The  hell  she  was  my  wife ! ' '  growled  Frake,  at 
bay.  * '  She  was  not  my  wife. ' ' 

"It's  your  shame  to  say  so,  then,"  rejoined  Lin 
coln,  solemnly.  * '  She  should  have  been. ' ' 

A  tense  silence.    Lincoln  broke  it. 

"What  do  you  know  about  it?"  growled  Frake, 
beaten. 

"Why  that  old  Indian  who  came  into  camp  on 
the  night  after  we  left  Dixon's  ferry,  whom  you  tried 
to  kill,  told  me  about  it,"  replied  Lincoln,  "and  I 
don't  think  he  was  such  an  awful  liar  as  you  tried  to 
make  out,  Frake ! ' ' 

Frake,  in  the  wrath  of  defeat,  turned  fiercely  to 
ward  Sylvia. 

"I've  had  enough  of  this,  Sylvia,"  he  snarled. 
"Are  you  going  to  let  these  men  come  here  and  insult 
me  f  If  they  won 't  get  out,  we  will.  Get  your  bonnet 
and  come  with  me ! " 

It  was  a  command,  a  command  in  which  all  the 
brute  and  the  coward  and  the  bully  that  was  in  him 
found  voice.  Sylvia  stood  apart  from  the  wall.  She 
took  her  arm  from  before  her  face.  She  was  a 


"Sylvia!"    His   hand   reached  forth   and   touched 
her's,  gently. 


Light  337 

tigress;  a  princess  of  the  Goths  a  thousand  years 
out  of  the  past;  a  priestess  of  Greece;  erect,  rag 
ing,  magnificent,  sublime  in  her  lofty  dignity. 

"Go!" 

Her  arm,  the  arm  that  had  hidden  her  eyes,  ex 
tended  toward  the  door.  Her  voice  was  solemn, 
awful.  Frake,  quailing  before  her  terrible  look,  cast 
his  eyes  furtively  about  the  room,  from  one  face  to 
another,  and  slunk  out.  Lincoln,  watching  him  go, 
followed.  As  he  passed  through  the  opening  there 
came  into  his  eyes  a  look  of  unutterable,  wistful  sad 
ness,  for  as  he  left  these  lovers  his  thoughts  were  of 
his  own  love,  of  Ann  Butledge,  who  lay  dying  in  her 
father's  house. 

1  *  Sylvia ! '  '  Mortimer  whispered  her  name,  coming 
close  to  her,  where  she  stood  by  the  wall  of  the  cabin. 
In  his  voice  was  all  the  love,  all  the  compassion,  all 
the  tenderness  that  was  in  his  eyes.  The  light  was 
full  within  him.  The  time  had  come.  Her  head  was 
upon  her  breast.  Her  hands  were  clenched  at  her 
sides.  She  wavered  and  swayed.  Her  heart  burst 
within  her  with  joy  and  with  grief.  Her  gladness 
was  smothered  beneath  the  weight  of  the  wrong  she 
had  done  this  man,  her  lover,  whom  she  loved  with 
her  whole  life. 

"Sylvia!"  His  hand  reached  forth  and  touched 
hers,  gently. 

"Leave  me,"  she  said,  in  a  heavy  whisper.    "I 


338          A  Knight  of  the  Wilderness 

cannot  lift  my  head.  I  cannot  look  into  your  eyes. 
I  have  sinned  against  you. ' ' 

He  raised  her  stiff  and  clutching  hand.  Gently, 
sweetly,  he  lifted  her  head. 

"Sylvia!" 

She  raised  her  lids,  slowly,  timidly,  falteringly. 
Her  eyes  met  his.  In  them  was  contrition,  humility, 
adoration,  inestimable  love,  unutterable  joy. 

He  kissed  her  upon  the  lips. 


THE  END. 


When  Good  Fellows  Get  Together 

t|  For  all  generous  minds  that  have  heen  young  there  is 
a  radiance  of  loveliness  that  nothing  can  ever  obscure 
over  the  Bohemian  days  of  long  ago.  Remembrance 
hallows  them  :  all  their  hardships  are  forgotten ;  through 
the  mists  of  time  they  glimmer  in  unsullied  beauty,  com 
ing  back  with  their  lost  loves,  their  vanished  comrades, 
their  hopes  that  since  have  withered,  their  dreams  that 
are  dead  and  gone ;  and  the  heart  thrills  to  remember,  and 
for  a  moment  the  glory  of  morning  streams  over  all 
the  world. —  William  Winter. 

€J  These  lovely  lines  serve  as  the  introduction  to  WHEN  GOOD 
FELLOWS  GET  TOGETHER  which  is  a  most  charming  book — 
either  to  own  or  to  give  a  friend. 

flThe  editor,  James  O'Donnell  Bennett  (Dramatic  Critic  of  The 
Chicago  Record  Herald),  has  chosen  with  rare  taste  a  compre 
hensive  selection  of  quotations  from  a  wide  range  of  authors,  both 
noted  and  little  known,  expressive  of  good-fellowship,  optimism, 
uplift  and  cheerfulness. 

€J  The  following  department  headings  give  an  idea  of  the  range 

of  the  subject  matter:  The  Good  Fellow's  Short  Guide, 
XXV  Toasts  from  Shakespeare,  Meeting  and  Parting, 
Eating  and  Drinking,  Smoking  and  Dreaming,  Living 
and  Loving,  Sweethearts  and  Wives,  Playing  the 
Game,  The  Golden  Days,  etc.,  etc. 

Printed  in  two  colors  on  fine  paper  and  bound  in  dark  green  cartridge 
paper  covers  with  an  inlaid  reproduction  in  three  colors  of  a  beau 
tiful  painting  hy  F.  S.  Manning.  12mo.  200  pages.  Price  $1.00. 
Bound  in  fine  Persian  Ooze,  gold  stamping,  boxed;  price  $2.00. 


MISS  MINERVA  and 
WILLIAM  GREEN  HILL 

By  FRANCES  BOYD  CALHOUN 

€|  Screamingly  ridiculous  situations  are  mingled  with  bits  of 
pathos  in  this  delightfully  humorous  tale  of  the  South. 

<I  Do  you  remember  "Helen's  Babies"?  and  "Mrs.  Wiggs"? 
Do  you  recall  "Tom  Sawyer"  and  "Huckleberry  Finn"? 

Miss  MINERVA  AND  WILLIAM  GREEN  HILL  is  every  bit  as 

genuine  as  any  of  these. 

€J  It  contains  a  delightful  little  love  story,  but  deals  principally 
with  William  Green  Hill,  a  six-year-old  boy  with  sunny  hair, 
a  cherub's  face,  and  a  wonderful  dialect  acquired  from  the  plan 
tation  negroes  among  whom  he  formerly  lived.  In  the  narration 
of  the  activities  of  Billy  and  his  associates,  Jimmy,  Frances  and 
Lina,  the  author  shows  an  intimate  knowledge  of  the  workings 
of  the  juvenile  mind  and  makes  the  pages  sparkle  with  laughs. 

CJ  From  start  to  finish  mere  is  no  let-up  in  me  fun.  Any  normally 
constituted  reader  of  the  book  will  soon  be  in  a  whirl  of  laugh 
ter  over  "  Sanctified  Sophy,"  "Uncle  Jimmy-Jawed  Jup'ter," 
"  Aunt  Blue  Gum  Tempy's  Peruny  Pearline's  chillens,"  and  the 
other  quaint  characters  of  this  fascinating  book.  Their  hearts 
will  go  out  to  lovable  little  Billy,  and  they  will  be  convulsed 
by  the  quaint  speeches  of  bad  Jimmy,  who  says  to  his  chum  : 
"You  all  time  gotter  get  little  boys  in  trouble.  You  'bout  the 
smart-Alexist  jack-rabbit  they  is." 

Small  12mo.  ;  212  pages;  bound  in  scarlet 
cloth  cover  attractively  stamped  ;  22  clever 
illustrations  by  Angus  MacDonall.  Price  $1.00. 


A  WOMAN  FOR  MAYOR 

A  novel  of  today — timely  and  interesting 
BY  HELEN  M.  WINSLOW 

Illustrated  by  Walter  Dean  Goldbeck 

<J  Whether  one  is  in  sympathy  with  or  against  the  idea  ot  woman 
in  politics,  Miss  Winslow's  story  should  hy  all  means  he  read. 
As  a  notable  piece  ot  fiction  it  is  worth  while.  Besides,  it  has 
ror  the  first  time  advanced  a  real  idea  as  to  how  woman  may 
become  a  valuable  factor  in  deciding  the  right  and  policy  of  the 
nation  by  means  of  the  ballot.  Some  of  the  strongest  novels  of 
modern  times  have  had  a  political  side,  mostly  relating  to  men. 
Here  is  something  new — a  political  novel  in  which  woman  fig 
ures  more  largely  than  man — and  of  course  that  means  a  good 
love  story. 

<J  Prominent  people  in  various  parts'of  the  country — mayors, 
politicians,  lawyers,  doctors,  preachers  and  political  economists 
— have  been  interviewed  by  the  press  concerning  Miss  Winslow's 
story.  While  opinions  differ  as  to  the  political  significance  of 
the  novel,  all  are  agreed  that  the  author  has  been  exceptionally 
clever  in  both  plot  and  story;  that  she  has  shown  how  woman 
may  retain  all  her  womanly  qualities  and  still  take  an  interest  in 
the  questions  which  involve  the  betterment  of  the  community 
in  which  she  lives. 

<J  Full    of  excitement   and   plausibility    and   the    love   thread    is  most  pleasing. — 

Baltimore  American. 

€J  Shows  the  ease   with   which   a   woman  may  be  chosen  when  men  fail  utterly  to 

treat  correctly  great  moral  questions. — New  York  Herald. 

^1  It  is  a  vivid,  well-told  story. — Salt  Lake  Tribune. 

CJ  Contains  a  great  deal  of  lively  repartee  and  clever  talk.     The  love  story  it  fully 

up  to  requirements. — Buffalo  Evening  News. 

flMiss  Winslow  has  written  a  story  that  every  suffragist  will  hug  to   her  bosom, 

and    that    every    good    natured     opponent    will     concede     is     clever. — Chicago 

Examiner. 

{JThe  romance   and  the  problem  are  blended  very  deftly  and  with  results  that  are 

extremely  happy. — Chicago  Inter-Ocean. 

€J  One  need  not  be   a  suffragette  to  find  "A    Woman    for    Mayor,"    an    absorbing 

story. — St.  Louis  Times. 

12mo.,   standard   novel  size;  342  pages;  bound  in  maroon 
cloth,    with    striking    four-eolor    jacket.        Price    $1.50. 


JE  SOUTHERN  f 


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